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Chapter Five: Anaesthesia.

To begin with, Greg had thought that it would be the same as every other 'get-together' with Sherlock's brother, following the same well-worn pattern that they had somehow set up between them; Mycroft sat, always alone in a deserted cafe, with two mugs and a pile of manila folders set before him. Lestrade would always arrive exactly on time, although it always felt as though he was late, take up the opposite seat and drink his cooling tea as Mycroft ignored his, and, together, they would discuss the various people and cases that Sherlock was about to encounter in the near future. As time went by, they gradually changed from being strictly business meeting to something that was actually looked forward to; by regular standards, the time they spent together could by no means by considered 'intimate', but the unexpected ease with which they could – in those few minutes – exist together provided a relief that, for one reason or another, they lacked beyond the cafe.

"Afternoon, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade cheerfully, shutting the cafe door behind him with a jingle.

The lack of Mycroft's uniform response of, "Good afternoon, Detective Inspector," made Greg falter. "What's wrong?" he demanded, crossing the chequered linoleum in just a few short strides.

Mycroft refused to meet his gaze, grey eyes fixed upon the large mug cradled between his hands.

Greg noted with a growing trepidation that half the tea had already been drunk. Mycroft never drank tea in cafes.

"I have some…difficult information to impart, Inspector," said Mycroft stiffly, finally raising his head to meet Lestrade's eyes.

Something heavy plummeted into the pit of his stomach as the inspector recognised that particularly foreboding expression of discomfort and guilt. His mouth having gone suddenly dry Lestrade raised his mug to his lips and drank deeply. The tea was stronger and sweeter than usual. Meant as an anaesthetic, presumably.

"Spit it out, Mycroft." Short and sharp – that was the best approach for most things.

The single folder was pushed halfway across the table, although Mycroft did not take his hands away, as though he were in two minds about giving it to the other man. Lestrade resisted the urge to snatch. Mycroft hesitated, then, "It's… it's concerning your wife."

"Caroline?"

"Yes."

"What about her? Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Mycroft replied, drawing out his words with excruciating slowness. "In a manner of speaking, anyway…"

"Oh for f-" Patience shattering beyond hope of redemption, Lestrade reached out and swiped the folder from beneath Mycroft's fingers. Almost tearing the flimsy cardboard in his haste, Lestrade fumbled with the flap before pulling out the contents.

Mycroft watched as the inspector examined the photographs with an entirely blank expression, his ring tapping tunelessly against the china mug in an unconscious betrayal of his discomfort.

After several long moments, the photographs were replaced carefully into their folder and Lestrade sat back, struggling with which of the hundred questions he should ask first. He settled on, "Why have you got these?"

Up to that point, Mycroft had always found it secretly difficult to imagine Inspector Lestrade as a formidable force of the law; however, the clipped tone and sharp edge to his expression left him in no doubt in this regard. He was also fairly certain that the truthful answer of, 'I had your wife followed and spied on,' would not go down well. He compromised with, "I was…concerned about you."

Lestrade was not placated.

"You had no right," he hissed furiously, leaning forward. "Absolutely no right!"

Mycroft couldn't really argue with that. "You needed to know."

A bark of humourless laughter. "You just can't resist, can you? You and your bloody brother! You can't leave anything alone without sticking your noses in! What the fuck am I supposed to do now?" Lestrade threw up his hands, almost knocking his mug over. "What do I say? 'Hello, Caroline, I know you've been cheating on me. How do I know this, you ask? Because the British fucking Government has had you placed under top level surveillance, that's how!' What the fuck, Mycroft?" he concluded. "What the actual fuck? You've gone and ended twenty fucking years of marriage and you try and tell me that you did it because you were concerned about me?"

As the volume of Lestrade's voice rose, so did the irrational feeling of guilt in Mycroft's stomach. It made no sense to feel such a way; he had done nothing but act out of good intentions. And yet, somehow, that was irrelevant.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "If there's anything I can do-"

"Yes, actually, there is." Lestrade snarled, shoving his chair back and rising. "You, and your bastarding brother, can fuck off out of my life."

The incriminating folder was snatched up and Lestrade stormed from the cafe in even fewer steps than when he had arrived, leaving the dregs of his tea behind him.

It was just after six o'clock that evening when Mycroft's phone bleeped.

DI Lestrade: Can I come over?

(20:07)

Mycroft Holmes: Of course. I'll put the kettle on. -MH

(20:08)