The knock on his office door startled Lestrade, and he immediately pulled back in his chair and tried to look like he'd just been hard at work and not slumped over his desk in gloomy contemplation. Luckily, it was Melissa standing at the door and not, say, Dyer. She looked cool and collected, despite the ordeal in the interview room. But then, Lestrade reflected, she was used to dealing with those sort of performances. Melissa had once said that a day she didn't have to deal with an inmate who was cutting off various body parts as a sympathy ploy for early release was considered a good day.
"Hey, are you okay?" she asked him, frowning a little.
"Yeah..." Lestrade flailed ineffectually at some of the reports on his desk, then decided to give up on any pretense that he was working. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sent Donovan home, and Sherlock and John have headed off too, so we're a bit understaffed."
Mentally, Lestrade thought of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as members of his team, even though they were not on the payroll and John, as he'd just had cause to point out, had no clearance to be anywhere near crime scenes. He restlessly picked up a pen, then put it down again. "So how's Mrs. Bartlett?"
"I've put in an order to move her to a psychiatric facility for further evaluation." Melissa sat down unasked. "I don't like it any more than you do, but safe is safe."
"Has she said anything else?"
"Not in English. She's trying to give off the idea that she's regressed into French only, and doesn't appear to understand English at all."
"She's trying to 'give off'?"
Melissa nodded. "You see that quite often among the mentally distressed- sometimes it's genuine, but I don't think it is in Addie's case. If you want my professional opinion, she's just as sane as I am. I'm making that known to the appropriate people, but I don't get to make that call."
Lestrade blinked. "You think the whole freak-out was an act?"
"A vicious temper doesn't make her insane." Melissa wrapped a lock of hair idly around one finger - a gesture Lestrade was ambivalent about, since it made her seem like a schoolgirl. "Now I suppose the difficult thing will be determining whether she attacked Sherlock because he had arrived at the truth, or at least somewhere near it," she said, "or because she's such a delicate little flower that the idea of having sex with her own husband gives her the vapours, much less the idea of having an affair with her doctor."
"I need to send officers around to chat with Dr. Inglis," Lestrade told her. "Buying chloroform over the internet isn't a crime, especially since he did it using his own name and bank details. Still, I'd like to know from his own mouth why he did it, since Addie's not to be trusted..." he trailed off as there was a knock on the door and Bob Thompson opened it.
"Thompson. What's happening?"
"Sir." Donovan's balding, overweight right-hand-man was puffing slightly. If he hadn't been running (very unlikely, knowing Bob) he'd clearly been walking faster than his body was comfortable with. "Mycroft Holmes is here to see you, sir."
Oh, shit, Lestrade thought, resisting the urge to slam his forehead against the desk. Mycroft bloody Holmes was in his bloody office.
Although he'd known Mycroft for as long as he'd known Sherlock - had met them both the same day, under similar circumstances to John Watson - the older Holmes had never dared, or condescended, to approach him at work or his home. Too lazy, Lestrade had reflected. It was more fun to send a car or make a phone call or even send a few pissy little texts to achieve the same effect. That Mycroft had finally come to New Scotland Yard and asked to see him in person was, frankly, terrifying.
"Show him in, then." Lestrade looked resignedly across the desk at Melissa.
"Do you want me to go?" she asked him. "Because I kind of want to listen in on this."
"Oh, do as you please, you're only going to hear all about it again later anyway." Lestrade held himself up a little straighter as Mycroft let himself into the office, three-piece suit and fob watch entirely at odds with the industrial-weave carpet and cluttered desk before him. Lestrade stood up and leaned across that desk to shake his hand.
"Mr. Holmes," he said politely. "As you've no doubt heard, we've had a situation erupt with Mrs. Bartlett, who attacked your brother this morning."
"So I've been informed." Mycroft looked sour. "It would have been helpful if I'd heard it from you or my brother, but I've long since given up any idea that you'll keep me informed when something like this occurs." He looked pointedly at Melissa, as if to question her presence.
"Mel's the forensic psychologist assigned to this case," Lestrade told him politely. "She was present when the interview occurred and can vouch for what happened. We've sent Mrs. Bartlett to be remanded in a psychiatric unit pending more information. I bet her father's pleased." He gestured Mycroft into a chair and sat down himself. Melissa did the same; Mycroft did not so much as glance at her.
"That's what I've come about, Inspector," he said. "I trust that, er..."
"Dr. Brennan," Melissa supplied briskly.
"I trust that you can be discreet about what I'm about to divulge, Dr. Brennan."
"It's my job to be discreet, Mr. Holmes."
"Just so. I'm afraid you've not been let in on the full picture of this case, Inspector. But you can hardly blame me for it, as I was working on orders of my superiors."
It had never really occurred to Lestrade before that Mycroft even had superiors, unless you were counting Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second. "And those superiors have changed their minds?" He was gaining an understanding of why it was that Mycroft had broken tradition and seen him in his office.
"No." Mycroft could make the smallest word sound like an anvil blow. "Hence the reason for discretion. The truth of the matter is that La Tremoille is not Adelaide's father, but her guardian."
Lestrade looked puzzled. "Why the secrecy?" he asked.
"Adelaide's mother bore her out of wedlock," Mycroft explained, unexpectedly prudish about the subject matter. "She was a society woman of Paris, of a well-connected and important family, and that's all I'm willing to divulge."
"And Adelaide's father?"
"An Englishman."
"Which Englishman?" Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. He bloody hated this guess-what-Holmes-is-thinking game. But Mycroft glanced down at the handle of his umbrella.
"I'm not at liberty to divulge that, either -"
"Mycroft, if it's you, it might be easier if you just fess up. You wouldn't be the first person to do something dumb when you were young." Lestrade was thinking, as he sometimes idly did, of a girlfriend he'd had at the age of seventeen who'd abruptly dumped him and moved to Colchester with her family. He'd never seen her again, but always wondered...
"Lord, no." Mycroft looked vaguely disgusted. "Certainly not. But an Englishman of some significance to the British Government, let us say. Adelaide's mother suffered from paranoid schizophrenia and committed suicide when her child was six. Adelaide's birth father was not in a position to reveal his identity, however, he did arrange for her to become La Tremoille's ward."
"And where is this Englishman now?"
"Still of some significance to the British government, and more than willing to pay for the best legal counsel available, and that includes my brother. Were he not a wealthy man before, Sherlock will be so if he's able to come through with this case."
Lestrade twirled the pen in his hands nervously. "And if Adelaide is guilty?" he ventured.
"The price is for the integrity of his counsel, not the decision of a jury."
There was a short silence. Lestrade was still twirling his pen. "Is this why it's so important that we suck up to her?" he suddenly asked.
"I think a man of your calibre could easily make a deduction on that point, Inspector."
"Okay. So why are you telling me all this?"
"Because I need you to understand how much is at stake." Mycroft rose. "So my brother was attacked, then. Not seriously injured, I hope?"
"She took a nice chunk out of his pretty face, and he'll have a few bruises around his throat, I reckon." Lestrade noticed the real concern that flitted across Mycroft's face for a second. "But John says he's okay." He shrugged. "Maybe you should call him and see?"
Concern was quickly jostled out of the way by Mycroft's usual shuttered demeanour. "Calling him is easy," he said. "Getting him to actually respond is the more difficult part."
"You're telling me."
Stephen Hassell's many talents included one for gathering information; Mycroft's already lightning-fast sources were even faster now that Stephen was on hand to shoulder some of the work. He'd heard about Adelaide Bartlett's attack on Sherlock not fifteen minutes after it had occurred, and had been calling his little brother's phone at regular ten-minute intervals since then. A call to Mrs. Hudson's landline had revealed that she was not at home, or not answering. Sherlock was apparently not at home either.
But he had left New Scotland Yard with John, who had an almost obsessively polite need to answer every call and text that came his way, whether it pleased him or not. A remnant from his army days, perhaps. Responding literally to the call, as it were. Or perhaps it was something from his days of being at the beck and call of a medical pager.
Either way, it irked Mycroft to have to contact John, but Lestrade's mention of bruises around Sherlock's throat was... alarming, so it had to be done. As he emerged from the building and followed the scent of tobacco smoke on the breeze for an island of smoking zone, Mycroft pulled out his phone with one hand and lit a cigarette deftly with the other.
Voicemail. He hissed in disgust and thumbed out a text.
I am growing very tired of this childish game. Tell my brother to call me immediately - Mycroft Holmes
The response came through two minutes later.
Save it for later Mycroft. I've got him at the urgent care clinic.
Mycroft deduced which clinic John was talking about and arrived there thirty-four minutes later, finding John dozing in a waiting-room chair and Sherlock nowhere in sight. He brought himself to John's attention by launching into conversation without preliminary.
"What in God's name is going on?" he demanded.
John startled slightly and opened his eyes. "Oh, it's you," he said. "I was wondering when you'd get here. Sherlock sort of keeled over at my place." He rubbed his eyes blearily. "He's in quite a lot of pain, too. Wouldn't go to the emergency room. I practically had to drag him here. He's in being seen now."
Drag had been the wrong expression, however. John hadn't needed to drag Sherlock to the clinic. He'd simply taken advantage of his woozy state and managed to get him into the car without any real protest.
"And...?"
"And what? No, I don't know what's wrong with him yet," John told him peevishly. "Pain gravitating to the left side and no fever, so it's not appendicitis."
"I suppose he's not eating properly again." Mycroft heaved a sigh.
"When does he ever? They'll probably -" John cut himself off, glancing past Mycroft's shoulder, and stood up. Sherlock had just come back out to the waiting room, papers clutched in his left hand. He walked stiffly, slowly, carefully placing each foot on the floor. Mycroft turned to him and did a double take, both at his brother's pallor and at the marks that Adelaide Bartlett had left on him. There was no doubt about it: Sherlock Holmes was in pain.
"So what did the doctor think?" John asked him before Mycroft could speak.
"The doctor did not think enough," Sherlock said grumpily. "They never do. Anyway. So I'm dehydrated."
John rolled his eyes. "God, what a shock."
"Shut up," he snarled. "They took blood, but I won't find out the results until tomorrow. Before you say anything, Mycroft, that Bartlett woman attacked me."
"I heard," Mycroft said, with no hint of amusement.
"Did they say what they think it could be?" John was no longer interested in Addie Bartlett and entirely focused on the issue at hand.
"Diverticulitis," Sherlock said. "But it's only a guess."
"Diverticulitis? Really?" John blinked. "You're a bit young for - no, cancel that. Given all the horrible things you've done to your digestive system over the last thirty years, I'm not all that surprised. But you should be running a fever if you've got an infection."
"I think that might be coming on now. Temperature of 37.9. I have a CT scan at nine tomorrow morning, if that'll shut you up." Sherlock shoved the paperwork at John and lowered himself carefully into the chair beside. John was looking over the papers, muttering to himself.
"Antibiotics, liquids-only, bed rest... paracetamol... pretty standard. But they couldn't get you in for a CT scan earlier than tomorrow morning?"
"Apparently not," Sherlock said. "They're not classifying this as quite the emergency that you are."
"Well they should be classifying it as one," John retorted, not minding if half the waiting-room heard his opinion on the subject. "I'll tell you what, if you were my patient, I'd be admitting you immediately. Dehydration can kill you, and diverticulitis isn't a joke, Sherlock."
"I'm not laughing."
John sighed. Just at that moment, he was not Sherlock's doctor. And whoever was, they had a point. There was no reason for someone to take up a hospital bed, as well as valuable hospital resources, provided they weren't in imminent danger and their treatment could just as easily be administered at home. It was exactly the same logic he'd use on any of his own patients, provided they were not his wife, daughter, sister, best friend or landlady.
"Fine," he said grudgingly. "At least they've given you some powerful antibiotics; they should hit whatever you've got pretty hard. We'll get those on the way back."
"Then we need to get moving." Sherlock glanced at his watch and stood back up with some effort. "This has been very inconvenient. I have a meeting with a client at Baker Street in just over an hour, and I need to prepare beforehand."
John stared at him. "A client...?"
"Oh, didn't I say? I've been in contact with Tim Bartlett." Sherlock sounded rather pleased with himself. "Brother of the dear departed Edwin. I have a feeling he's a much better source on the relationship and personalities of Edwin and Adelaide than the grieving widow is."
"Mycroft, for God's sake, tell him." John spoke through his hands. "Tell him he can't -"
Mycroft cleared his throat and rose to the occasion. "My understanding of 'bed rest' is that it involves rest in bed," he said carefully. "Which precludes the reception of clients for the time being."
Sherlock smiled grimly. "I'm sure I can manage both."