Greg sipped his coffee as he leaned back on the chair in his office. It was one of those rare days where he had time to himself for a few moments. There were no new cases in that day, he was up to date on his paperwork and Sherlock was not waltzing around the office like he owned the place. Even the building was quiet, with the people outside his office having quietened down in the late afternoon. The only thing on his mind was serial suicide case that was leaving everyone mystified. The press conference had been a disaster as well with Sherlock somehow getting hold of the numbers of every reporter in the room and texting them. Smarmy git, thought Greg. However, it was becoming increasingly obvious that Scotland Yard would once again have to come to Sherlock for help.
Suddenly, Donovan burst in through his office door without knocking.
"Sir, there's been another one," she said, slightly breathless.
"Where?" Greg asked, snapping out of his late afternoon reverie.
"Lauriston Gardens."
"Alright, let's go." He said, shrugging on his coat.
Lestrade arrived at the crime scene and saw that the tape was already up and cordoning off abandoned building where the victim had been found. The inside was already awash with bright halogen lights that leeched the warmth out of the place. Slipping on some protective overalls, he headed upstairs to the room where the body was.
Anderson was already taking photographs of the crime scene. He stopped when they walked into the room and gave Donovan a small smile. It was a completely empty room except for the woman laying facedown in the middle. She was dressed in an entirely bright pink ensemble that contrasted sharply with the dull browns of the mildew-ridden room.
"Rache." Anderson said behind him pointing at floor.
"Sorry?"
"It means "revenge" in German."
Lestrade glanced down at the woman. Her left arm was splayed out slightly lying limp next to a word scratched into the rough wooden floorboards. Rache.
"The others didn't leave notes did they?"
Donovan shook her head.
"It's getting serious now Sir. The boys down in forensics are stumped. There's no sign of a struggle and we're still getting an ID on her."
"You know, I hate to be the one to bring it up but I think we're going to have to call in Sherlock on this one."
"No way. I am not sharing this case with the Freak." Donovan snapped as animosity blazed in her eyes.
"Donovan." Greg said sternly, "I don't care what you think. Unless you can figure this out before the killer strikes again, we need Sherlock on the case."
"Fine." She sighed and stomped off. Anderson soon finished up and left too. Finally alone, save for the corpse, Lestrade whipped out his and dialled Sherlock hoping to high heaven that the consulting detective wouldn't start off the phone call with "I told you so."
Mycroft stood alone in the darkened undercover parking lot. Anthea had since driven off with John to escort him home, leaving Mycroft to think in the dim, dank space. He mentally ran through John's file that Anthea had prepared for him earlier prior to the "kidnapping". Doctor John Watson, Captain formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Army medic. Invalided in Afghanistan after being shot in the left shoulder. Has developed symptoms of PTSD including recurrent nightmares and a psychosomatic limp and fine hand tremor at rest. Unemployed and currently living with Sherlock at 221B Baker Street. Misses the adventure of war and combat. Attends therapy sessions and currently keeping a blog in order to work through his "issues". Conclusion after meeting: stubbornly loyal with a strong sense of morality. Danger to Sherlock: None. Usefulness regarding Sherlock's well-being: To be determined.
Mycroft made his way out into the brisk night air and headed to where his car was waiting to take him home for the night. On the drive home, Mycroft contemplated the two new factors in Sherlock's life: John Watson and Gregory Lestrade. They were both, from what he could see, positive factors for Sherlock. Potentially, they were the 'stabilising factors' that Mummy had requested Mycroft search for the last time he had spoken to her.
Upon arriving on at his home in Kensington, Mycroft fixed himself a small cup of camomile tea before settling in front of the fire. Watching the flames, he slowly succumbed to sleep leaving his cup of tea half drunk.
The buzzing of his Blackberry woke Mycroft. Blinking away his sleep, he reached over to the coffee table and glanced at the message from Anthea.
JW + SH involved in incident regarding serial suicides. Initial reports indicate that culprit is deceased. Exact circumstances uncertain. Will be over in 5.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. It was typical of Sherlock to get up to such nonsense at ungodly hours.
When the car arrived, Mycroft opened the door to find Anthea sitting inside happily tapping away at her Blackberry.
"Sir." She greeted, giving him a faint smile.
Mycroft nodded and settled into the plush leather seat as Winston drove them both through the empty streets towards the crime scene.
Anthea's Blackberry buzzed and she quickly read the text.
"We've been updated and it appears that Sherlock and Dr Watson are both unhurt."
"Good. God knows how much sleep I'd get tonight if we had to deal with casualties." Mycroft was silently relieved that his brother had managed to stay out of too much trouble this time.
The crime scene was lit up like a festival by the time they had arrived. The police officers and ambulance crew rushed about frantically trying to organise the scene. Winston pulled up and Mycroft stepped out, umbrella in the crook of his arm as usual. He saw his brother's silhouette accompanied by a short stocky man make their way towards him.
John caught a glimpse of Mycroft and visibly stiffened.
"Sherlock," Mycroft heard him whisper. "That's him, the guy I was telling you about." John's eyes scrutinised Mycroft and to his surprise, showed no signs of fear.
"Mycroft." Pure dislike flashed across Sherlock's face.
"Sherlock. Dear me. Messing about like this again and you wonder why Mummy cut you off?"
"Wait… what? You're related?" John spluttered looking at both men.
"An unfortunate fact of nature that can't be helped John. Nothing more." Sherlock muttered, seething at the sight of his brother.
"Sherlock, this feud between us is absolutely petty. You're a grown man for God's sake. Act like one." Mycroft chastised. Sherlock face was contorted into an expression of absolute disgust and fury.
"I am acting like a grown man. It's not my fault you're such a mummy's boy."
"And you're not?" Mycroft asked, eyebrow raised. He turned to John. "Doctor Watson, do forgive me for my treatment of you earlier, but you must understand I did not know what kind of threat you posed. Goodnight." He nodded to John and walked back to his car.
Mycroft watched the two men walk away as Anthea stood by his side texting fervently on her phone.
"Hello again," said a familiar voice from behind him. Mycroft turned to see Lestrade with a grim expression on his face.
"Detective Inspector. How nice to see you again." Mycroft replied, his stare drilling into Lestrade's head.
Lestrade frowned. "Is there a problem? It turns out it was just your run of the mill serial killer after all. Police business. Nothing you governmental types should be concerned about."
Mycroft shook his head, "Nothing of concern Detective Inspector. I was merely checking up on private family business. I was simply worried about Sherlock's safety."
Lestrade nodded. "Right, well if that's all then I really should get back to work." He waved in the general direction of the crime scene awkwardly as Mycroft didn't reply. The bureaucrat simply continued staring at Lestrade, as if thousands of tiny cogs were whirring in his brain. Evaluating him. Breaking him down into infinitesimally miniscule points of data and building him back up. Analysing every facet of his existence. Lestrade just stood there – uncertain of whether he should or shouldn't leave. Under the trademarked Holmesian stare he felt tiny and vulnerable – though from Lestrade's point of view, he couldn't quite figure out why.
For Lestrade one achingly awkward moment stretched into another until the string finally snapped. Mycroft broke his gaze and gave Lestrade a smile – one that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Good night Detective Inspector." Mycroft said before walking back to his car. It whisked him away as soon as the door closed.
Lestrade shook his head. Absolute nutters those Holmes', he thought to himself before turning back to the chaos that was the crime scene.