Lestrade was reading the paper, his feet comfortably resting on the corner of his desk. He didn't hear Sherlock come in until his paper was pushed down and a mob of curly dark hair appeared where the article on immigration had been.
"Sherlock! What the hell!" Lestrade pulled his feet off the desk and folded his paper sharply.
"I need a favour."
"Okay?"
"My shrink says I need to visit my father."
"Really? Do you want me to come with you?"
"Why else would I be here?" Sherlock said, deliberately not actually asking.
"I'm happy to come, Sherlock. Lead the way."
"He lives in a home about an hours drive away." Sherlock bit his lip. He was nervous, Lestrade realised. He didn't blame the younger man in the slightest. If the carving on his back was anything to go by, his father must have been one hell of a jerk. A million times worse than a jerk. "He doesn't know who I am."
They drove in silence, Lestrade tapping the steering wheel slightly to a song in his head, Sherlock staring out of the window as his beloved city dwindled into red brick suburbs and then into countryside. Eventually, after longer than it should have been, they arrived at the Edwardian building that housed thirty elderly people with memory disorders. On entering the building, they were asked to sign in. Within five minutes, Sherlock had inadvertently made the receptionist cry by telling her that her husband had cheated on her because he thought she was too fat. Lestrade attempted to comfort her whilst rolling his eyes at a rather surprised Sherlock. The men were led into a lounge area with a piano and a television as well as several brown leather sofas. They sat in silence, Sherlock at the piano, touching but not playing the middle C. Lestrade read a magazine on gardening. Eventually, after a very long time, a nurse came in, helping an old man to hobble to the sofa. He was hunched slightly, his grey hair thinning considerably. His glasses were grey with thick glass. Sherlock didn't remember him wearing glasses last time. He held an IV pole, and he was using it to prop himself upright. Sherlock kept his face neutral, but beneath his cold exterior he was squirming, hating to be this close to the man who had caused him so much pain.
"Okay then, Mr. Holmes, I'll leave you three alone. You just let me know if you need anything, okay boys?" The nurse said, patronisingly.
"Thank you" Lestrade nodded, smiling. He turned his attention to Sherlock the second she left the room. The tall man looked stiff, as though he was subconsciously trying not to displease his father even after all those years.
"Hello Father" Sherlock said quietly, not looking at the old man.
"Father? You're not Mycroft."
"No. I'm Sherlock."
"I don't have another son. Only my little Mycroft. He's in the government, you know. Very smart is my boy" he smiled, sitting down slowly onto one of the sofas.
"Mycoft is my older brother. I'm your younger son by seven years" Sherlock said, trying not to feel hurt that he had been forgotten. He shouldn't feel hurt by anything this man said to him anymore. But the little child inside him ached for his father's approval. For his love.
"No. I don't have another son" the old man shook his head, frowning."
"Okay, fine. What about Katerina?" Sherlock leaned forward, leaning his arms on his long thighs.
"She looked just like her mother." The old man sighed.
"I need to know where we buried her. What cemetery?"
"No. Only me and Mycroft know. The Other can't know."
"The Other?" Sherlock asked, hurt already piercing at his heart.
"Sherlock Holmes"