Chapter Seven

"So this is what your new house is like?" Lestrade grinned as Mycroft led the way into the house's living room. "Sorry about the... other one."

Mycroft thought about Lestrade's first remark for a moment. "No, it's alright. This is actually the safehouse I've been living in since the... well, incident." Lestrade suddenly looked a little embarrassed for mentioning it. "Although, it is very much alike, isn't it?"

They had been dropped off at Mycroft's safehouse during the early moments of midnight, and both men were more than ready for rest.

Mycroft pointed, from the living room, at the hall adjoining it. "The guest room is the second door on the right, the bathroom is the door just beyond it. Feel free to occupy the living room, and I'm sure you can find some substantial food in the kitchen. I'm not too accustomed to the layout of the kitchen myself, I'm sure you can find whatever you need through trial-and-error." Mycroft tapped his chin, wondering if he was forgetting to inform Lestrade of anything.

"Oh, and, spare towels and toiletries are in the bathroom." Lestrade nodded his thanks and stumbled sleepily to the bathroom to wash up.

He found towels and bathrobes folded impeccably in a cabinet and at the sink he found toothbrushes, shaving set, soap bars, and... acne cream...? Lestrade decided to ignore it.

After washing up, Lestrade snuck into the guest room in a bathrobe, not really wishing to sleep in trousers and dress shirt, but not comfortable enough to sleep without.

He crawled under the covers and closed his eyes.

And tried to convince himself that the man who owned this house wasn't a high-ranking government agent and potential morbid-experimentation-prone-high-functioning-sociopath like his brother.

It was going to be a long night.

Mycroft perked up, startled when he heard a whisper of sound from downstairs. He wasn't accustomed to having visitors at his own home, temporary as it may be, and he was having a bit of trouble concentrating even from the second floor study.

He shook out his wrist to glance at his watch. It was two thirty in the morning.

Five minutes later, another rustle of movement pulled his attention from his work. Then the sound of footsteps padding quietly to the bathroom before Lestrade turned on the water tap.

Mycroft decided that enough work had been done today and locked up his papers in a hidden safe in the study, noting distractedly that the water downstairs had stopped running while he did so. He glided down the stairs and through the living room to the kitchen, silent as a cat, and began brewing a pot for tea.

You could imagine his surprise when he exited the kitchen to find Lestrade sitting curled up on his couch, staring blankly at the powerless TV screen, his bathrobe hanging loosely from his shoulders and gathering at his bent knees. Lestrade hadn't noticed he entered the room so Mycroft just watched him think for a moment or two, wondering why the DI hadn't just gone back to sleep.

It was probably the nightmares, Mycroft thought. Being a copper associated with Sherlock was bound to get him into some of the more gruesome cases. Mycroft noted the dark circles around Lestrade's eyes, but his eyes themselves were undeniably awake and alert. And his mind, thinking, thinking, solving problems, ...troubled. Evaluating, which cases he would need Sherlock's help on, and which he could solve on his own before the killer could supply more victims. DI Lestrade just couldn't turn his work switch off.

"Can't sleep?" Mycroft broke the dead silence, startling Lestrade out of his grim musings.

Lestrade jumped at Mycroft's sudden appearance in his peripherals and turned to the man meekly. "No, I-... I could sleep... until I woke up." He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "And that was it."

Mycroft nodded, his mouth opening in a silent 'ah'. "Would you like tea? I just boiled a pot for myself."

Lestrade nodded gratefully, following Mycroft into the kitchen. "What are you doing up at this time of night? Er-... morning?"

Mycroft quirked his eyebrows at him but ignored his struggle to find the right word. "Working." He poured Lestrade a cup of tea.

"'Working'?" Lestrade parroted, taking the offered cup with a nod of thanks. "At this time?"

"Yes, I only sleep from precisely four a.m to seven a.m." Mycroft told him.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Why not from three a.m to six a.m.?" Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows in confusion at the strange question, obviously trying to find the logic behind it. "Just a random question." Lestrade assured him.

"Well I've tried that." Mycroft said, sipping his own cup of tea. "But I find that most night-time emergencies make themselves known at three fifteen." he deadpanned.

Lestrade nearly dropped his cup. "Did you just-...?" ...make a joke? He ran a hand down the lower half of his face and chuckled, shaking his head. "Nevermind."

They drank their tea in silence for a while, both leaning languidly against opposite ends of the kitchen counter. "May I ask what it was about? Your dream." Mycroft inquired with a careful casuallness that only he could pull off.

Lestrade's jaw tightened slightly, the change would most likely be lost on an amateur observer, but Mycroft was watching for it. "I don't remember my dreams." Lestrade lied with a dark chuckle. "Never do."

Mycroft merely hummed back. "Neither do I." Then his cellphone buzzed. "And here comes my midnight crisis." He pulled his vibrating phone out of his pocket. "Do you mind?"

Lestrade grunted behind a mouthful of tea and waved his assent. Mycroft turned away and wandered a few steps off. "Sorry for the late-night call. You wern't sleeping, were you?" It was Hoover.

"Of course not." Mycroft scoffed. "What is it?"

"It seems that the case involving DI Lestrade is becoming a serious matter." Hoover spoked tiredly. "We went through the break-in scene with a fine tooth comb and found nothing. Seems like whoever is behind this didn't find what he, or she, was looking for. His office down at the Yard is in shambles. We've got his sergeant, Sally Donovan, on the case and she's to make note of anything missing."

Mycroft frowned a little, glancing over his shoulder at Lestrade. "I see, well keep me posted."

"Will do." Hoover hung up.

The ends of Mycroft's lips dipped an inch and he narrowed his eyes at the surface of his kitchen counter. What on earth was this case coming to? The first attempt on Lestrade's life was startling, but not entirely unexpected. If Mycroft's enemies wanted to send him a warning message, they could assume that Mycroft heard them loud and clear.

So why the second attempt? And what did Lestrade have that they want?

Lestrade chuckled a little to himself at the expression of pure concentration on Mycroft's face. "We're not starting a war tonight, are we?" he tried to joke.

Mycroft's head jumped up and he looked at Lestrade like he had forgotten he was there. "No. Not tonight, at any rate." he responded with a tense smile.

A cold war, perhaps. Mycroft thought. DI Lestrade, what are you hiding?