Chapter Five
A few days later Lestrade made his way to Sherlock's apartment. He had resolved to sort out Sherlock's mystery spy stalker problem once and for all. Greg walked up the stairs two steps at a time and knocked on Sherlock's door. It swung open to reveal a tousle-haired man with a slight manic expression on his face.
Lestrade inspected the consulting detective. "Sherlock. When was the last time you slept?"
"Unimportant Lestrade. Is this why you came to see me? To check up on my sleeping habits? Really, every time I think that you might not be as idiotic as the rest you prove me wrong." Sherlock rolled his eyes and made to close the door.
Lestrade stopped him and forced himself into the flat. "I only came to talk to you about a problem I'm having."
"What problem? Has the department finally found out that you came to work hungover last week?"
Lestrade groaned internally. If Sherlock knew, it would only be a matter of time before he used it to weasel a favour out of him. "No. It's not that. I wasn't even that hungover. The other night some bloke ambushed me in the middle of the street and asked me about you."
"Me? Who was he?" Sherlock seemed surprised.
"That's just it. I have no idea who he is. But I recognised him. Back in Paris I drove him round in my taxi and I saw him on the telly a few weeks back too. He's with MI6 I think – some sort of spy?"
"When was this taxi ride in Paris?"
"Err…November I think?" Lestrade replied, unsure as to why this was important
"Did this mysterious man offer you money to spy on me?"
"Yeah. I didn't accept it – how do you know this? Has this happened before?"
"Mycroft." Sherlock practically spat the name out of his mouth.
"Sorry? Who?" What kind of name was Mycroft? thought Lestrade.
"I'm sorry to say Lestrade but you are in the most unenviable position of having met my older brother."
"Your what?" Greg asked, completely taken aback. He had no idea that Sherlock had a brother.
"Oh yes. He has a tendency to be overly dramatic with all the kidnappings and what not. He worries about me." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought.
"I gathered. But he's fucking insane like you. Why couldn't he just give me a call? How the hell did he know who I was?"
"He's the British Government," came reply, as if it were obvious.
"What?" Lestrade spluttered.
"Mycroft has always been attracted to grandeur. He will tell you his job is a 'minor role in the British Government' but he's much more than that. He basically runs the country."
"Fuck. You Holmes' are crazy you know that? I have to deal with you already, and now I have to deal with two of you, one of which is running the country? God help me." Lestrade muttered, sighing with exasperation.
"Well, if that's all you came to do, you may leave now. I'm busy." Sherlock shooed him from the room.
Lestrade blinked as the door slammed in his face. From the other side he could hear dull thuds smack into the door. Sherlock seemed to have taken up archery after hearing one of his officers mention it last week. He'd have to have a word with the people at the office. Sherlock was dangerous enough without giving him ideas for violent past-times.
Two weeks had passed since Lestrade had gone to Sherlock about Mycroft. It was again a dreary January afternoon in London and the cold was worming its way into Lestrade's coat. He was currently surrounded in a swathe of police tape and the lights on their cars were flashing. Curious passersby were hurriedly shooed away by some of the lower ranked police officers. This case had been an interesting one. A homeless man had been killed out of cold blood. They had all been stumped as to who the culprit was and had no idea what the motive could be. Of course once Sherlock had found his way onto the case it was apparently "obvious" that it was a revenge killing caused by some turf war. All that from dirt under the victim's shoes and the tan line around his neck.
Sherlock had long made his dramatic exit complete with coat swirl from the crime scene. Lestrade was overseeing the crime scene clean up and the last few routine details that needed to be sorted out. It had been a long day dealing with the murder and Sherlock who had been particularly obstinate lately.
He glanced around, checking that everything was going to order. In the distance a little way down the street was a man standing in the light drizzle with his umbrella up. Though it was too far away to see his face, Lestrade immediately knew who it was.
Lestrade waved his second in command over. "Donovan! Keep things running for me. I'll be back in a mo'."
He walked over to the man waiting for him.
"Fancy seeing you here. I talked to Sherlock about you." Lestrade said.
"So I've been told." Mycroft said delicately.
Lestrade studied the man in front of him. He was wearing yet another three piece suit and accompanied by the ever-present umbrella. Mycroft had quite fine features, not unlike his brother though he wasn't shockingly thin like Sherlock. His reddish hair was receding slightly and he was groomed to perfection. Whilst Sherlock was a whirling tornado that left destruction in its wake, Mycroft was a solid rock of calm in a raging ocean oozing power and confidence. The calm stare that was slowly drilling its way into Greg's head was slightly unnerving.
"What do you want?" Lestrade asked.
"I merely wanted to apologise for my behaviour the last time we met. I had to see if you were trustworthy." Mycroft gave a little bow in apology.
"Right. And ambushing me was your answer to that?"
"Most people are more truthful when placed in uncomfortable circumstances."
"So you just came here to apologise. 'Scuse the French but that's bullshit."
"Was that a pun Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked, with a hint of a smile.
Lestrade chuckled. "I guess. The last time I properly talked to you was in Paris."
"Yes. I was intrigued when you mentioned Sherlock in the taxi and I took it into my own hands to read up on you. It seems you were quite the successful policeman before moving overseas."
Lestrade nodded. "It's good to be back. Paris was a miserable place what with the divorce and all. But seriously, don't change the subject. What do you want?"
"I simply wanted to properly introduce myself. And perhaps ask you to reconsider my offer that I posed to you a few weeks ago. This time without the money. I simply want to know that you are looking out for my younger brother. He can be rather… difficult despite my best surveillance efforts."
"You spy on your own brother? He told me you ran the British Government," Lestrade interjected.
"Sherlock's words, not mine Detective Inspector. I merely occupy –"
"A minor position in the British Government. Got it." Lestrade interrupted with a touch of sarcasm.
"Exactly." Mycroft said, smiling slightly. "I have … certain privileges that come with the job. One of which is being able to watch over my brother without interfering with him too much."
"So you want me to just keep an eye on him?"
"I worry about him constantly Detective Inspector. He is family after all."
Lestrade considered the offer. Mycroft was a tad insane, but there was method in his madness. It all came down to family in the end.
"Fine. I'll keep an eye on him. But no more of this ambushing business. I'll give you my number, you can call me during normal hours." He had too much experience with Sherlock's inability to understand the way society normally functioned. He couldn't risk it with Mycroft though the older brother seemed much more grounded.
"There is no need Detective Inspector. I already have your number. However, I would like you to have mine." He reached into his pocked and pulled out a small business card and handed it to Lestrade. It was a pale cream coloured card on which was printed "Mycroft Holmes" with his number underneath. Nothing more. No occupation, office address, qualifications. Nothing. Not that it's surprising, thought Lestrade.
"Are there any other questions?" Mycroft asked.
"Err… no. I'm good." Lestrade replied.
"Very well. Then I bid you good afternoon Detective Inspector."
"Please, call me Greg." He said holding out a hand.
"Mycroft." They shook hands and with a small nod Mycroft turned and walked to waiting black car with tinted windows. He stepped inside and gave Lestrade a small wave before closing the door. The car drove off leaving Lestrade standing in the bitter cold with the light drizzle soaking into his clothes.