Chapter Two

Mycroft leaned back in his leather armchair exhausted from a long conversation with the Prime Minister who was currently in the United States. The man had brought up more problems that Mycroft was expected to deal with. On days like these, Mycroft questioned whether his line of work was best for him. But the doubt never lasted long. After all, who would replace him? Britain would fall in an instant without a protector in the shadows.

There was a gentle knock on the door and Anthea walked in without waiting for a reply. She was expected anyway. In her hands was a tray with a full pot of tea and a few biscuits – low sugar. Mycroft was sticking to his diet as much as Sherlock liked to jibe him. He had the discipline honed from years of dealing with stubborn diplomats and downright arrogant foreign leaders.

"Thank you, Anthea." Mycroft sounded. Even he could hear the exhaustion in his own voice. There was no point hiding it – it would only waste what precious energy he had left for the day.

"My pleasure, sir. I've got the Bastion file as well." She set down the tea tray and placed a file on his desk. Written on the cover in discrete black ink was "Top Secret: MH EYES ONLY". Mycroft gave Anthea a nod of thanks and she smiled and left the room.

Mycroft sighed. These past few months ever since the start of the Bastion initiative with French had been an extra source of stress for Mycroft. Things seemed to stop and start – implementation delayed due to unforeseeable circumstances despite the best efforts from both countries. Mycroft flicked through the file and the words swam on the page in front of him. From what he could glean in his catatonic state, he knew it could wait until at least tomorrow morning. There was no way his mind could deal with the problem now and the warmth and soft lighting in his office wasn't helping. His eyes were straining to stay open. Mycroft picked up his phone and called for Winston, his driver. He locked the file away in his safe. Mycroft avoided bringing work home with him. It helped to keep the two parts of his life as separate as possible both physically and psychologically.

Emptying the last few dregs of tea from his cup, he slipped on his overcoat and hooked his trusty umbrella over the crook of his arm. He strode out into the London night air and into the waiting car ready to take him to his Kensington home.

Over on the other side of London, one former Detective Inspector Lestrade was busy setting up the last of the odd trinkets and ornaments in his apartment. This week had been a long one but the one good thing that arose was that Lestrade had his former job back. Dimmock was off on leave after the birth of his new son and so the department was short staffed. What better way to fill it than with an experienced cop who had once worked in that very department?

His apartment wasn't too bad, certainly much nicer than the cramped Paris bachelor pad that he was paying for on a taxi driver's wage. It wasn't too difficult leaving France, the few friends that he had made had drifted away once he had divorced Isabelle. Mum and Dad were unhappy of course, but they knew he'd be happier back in London chasing down criminals and doing his part in setting the world straight. Tomorrow would be his first day back on the job. He was almost excited to see everyone again – Anderson and Donovan who had been recently promoted to Sergeant. He was even a little bit keen to see Sherlock again who, from what he had gathered in his brief conversations with Dimmock, was still a complete arse and acted like he owned Scotland Yard.

Greg finished arranging the souvenir snow globe that was a remnant from his holiday to Florida a few years back. He stepped back to appraise the little flamingos trapped in plastic dome whilst sipping from a mug of stale coffee. That would be another thing for his "How to make apartment habitable" list. Fresh coffee.

Sitting down on the couch that was the only reminder of his ex-wife in his entire home – it was a shame to waste such a good couch, he flicked on the telly and watched the newsreader for BBC give a review of the day's stories.

"And in more news, Her Majesty the Queen has toured the offices of the Secret Intelligence Service today in Vauxhall Cross. Charles Overton has more."

Lestrade watched the news clip with mild interest as he saw the Queen dressed in a sunshine yellow dress with matching hat tour a bland set of government offices. The clip switched to a fancier looking hallway and there in the background, was a man that made Lestrade lean forward and squint. He had an umbrella hooked on his arm as he gazed at the scene unfolding in front of him. Umbrella man. It was strange that the "businessman" had made such a strong impression on Greg in the taxi. Perhaps it was his fancy suit and suspiciously avoidant answers. More likely he was the first person to whom Greg had voiced aloud his desire to return to England and work with the police. The man had been nice in his own strange way. And he had tipped extremely generously. Well well, he thought to himself, no wonder he was so hesitant to answer me. Some kind of spy or something then. The thought of that excited him – Greg Lestrade ferrying a spy around Paris on some sort of top secret mission. He smiled to himself and tucked the story away into his memory. He'd share it the next time he and boys were down at the pub. If there was one thing the boys could count on, it was that Greg Lestrade could be relied upon for a good story.

The sound of a text message alert interrupted a mutilated violin concerto. Sherlock Holmes was bored. He picked up the phone – hoping that a serial killer had decided to start killing and saw Dimmock's name. Dull, he thought to himself.

Sherlock, just thought I'd let you know that I'm going away on leave starting tomorrow. Lestrade is back from France and is taking my place for a while. Be nice to him. He just went through a divorce.

Sherlock skimmed the text and a feeling of elation filled him – though he would deny it later. Lestrade was back. The one officer in the entirety of Scotland Yard who was not a complete half-wit. A reliable, not completely idiotic officer who could string more than two monosyllabic words together. At least he had something to look forward to once the sun rose. And with that final thought, he picked up his bow and violin and continued to destroy Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D major.