Lestrade stood in the door to his office, blinking in slow disbelief, one hand scrubbing through his already-haphazard hair.
"It's three o'clock in the morning. You shouldn't be here."
Lestrade gaped. "You're telling me this?"
Sherlock finally looked away from the monitor of Lestrade's computer and gave an exaggerated glance around the deserted office. The question, Who else? was as plain as the unspoken sarcasm with which it was delivered.
"Sherlock, you're sitting in my office, on my computer, which you can only have logged onto using my password… and I don't know how you got in here alone in the middle of the night, but I'm fairly sure it has something to do with my missing ID."
The detective waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, and I'm sitting here solving your cases. What would you like me to do about it?"
"Go home! Why are you…" but then Lestrade trailed off. "Does John know you're here?"
Sherlock was not quite fast enough to hide the flicker of hurt across his face before his features turned stony and he narrowed his eyes. He gave no answer, though, and Lestrade forged on.
"He's been texting me, Sherlock. He says he hasn't heard from you in over a week."
"I've been busy."
"Too busy to go home?"
Lestrade did not miss the way Sherlock's features fell this time when he said 'home.' The younger man looked tired, then, just for a moment, but long enough for Lestrade to have noticed. Some things even the inspector's perfectly ordinary brain could deduce.
"Something happened."
No reaction from Sherlock.
"Sherlock, talk to me."
Nothing.
He tried something else. "Have you been in here every night?"
Still nothing. Whatever he was saying, it wasn't what Sherlock needed to hear. He turned on his heel and walked out of his office, leaving the detective to whatever havoc he was wreaking on the case files of Scotland Yard.
A few minutes later, he returned, set a cup of coffee down at Sherlock's elbow, and settled into the visitors' chair in his office, sipping thoughtfully at his own cup.
"Detective Inspector." John stood aside, leaving room for Lestrade to enter the flat.
"John."
The two had a cordial relationship, forged over a few pints and a shared frustration with Sherlock Holmes, usually indulged in at the same time. If John thought it was odd that Lestrade wanted to call at 221B at four-thirty in the morning, he didn't say so. He was already up and preparing for a long day's work at the clinic, anyway.
"Sherlock's not – "
"He's at Scotland Yard."
John's eyes widened. "Is he all right? What… I mean…"
"He's hacking into my computer and solving my cases, if that's what you mean."
"God, yes, so he's…"
"He's not all right."
"No," John agreed softly. "I suppose not."
Lestrade laid a hand on John's shoulder. "I don't know what's happened, but fix it, John."
"How? He won't answer my texts, he hasn't come home –" except for that night, John thought, and I blew it, I blew it " – and even Mycroft isn't helping, I've tried ringing him."
"My office," said Lestrade. "Talk to him. I can let you in."
Sherlock was gone by the time they arrived back at the Yard. The office was dark, Lestrade's screensaver softly illuminating the empty chair pushed back against the wall. There was no sign of the midnight invasion of privacy; even the paper coffee cup was gone.
At the end of a long workday, made longer by the sleepless night before, Lestrade's office phone rang.
"Lestrade," he answered it reluctantly.
"Detective Inspector. It's John."
"John. What can I do for you?"
He almost didn't want to ask. Bad enough that Sherlock acted in complete disregard for his own life. Did he have to drag others' down with him? John was a nice guy, the sort Lestrade could easily imagine making friends with in a pub over an argument about football. Or rugby. John seemed the rugby type.
"Well, I was wondering… would it be all right if I came down to your office?"
"Now? Sherlock's not here."
"No, of course not. I only… well, I thought maybe if I could... I have some things he might… need." John's voice faltered on the last word.
"Come and drop them off, then," Lestrade told him, nodding even though he knew John couldn't see him. "Maybe, for once, I'll get out of here at a reasonable hour. Drink?"
"God knows I could use one."
John arrived about twenty minutes later, carrier bag in hand and an apologetic expression on his face. "Sorry, I'm so sorry," he said as Anderson gestured him into Lestrade's office (earning them both raised eyebrows from Donovan, but really, John wasn't so bad on his own, and she didn't say a word). "Only I had to go back to Baker Street, and it's murder trying to get a cab at this hour, and, well, you know how it goes."
Lestrade nodded and turned off his computer monitor. "What about that drink?"
"Right… let me just…" John said, gesturing to the carrier bag. Lestrade watched as he pulled out a scruffy-looking blanket (odd-coloured stains and acid burns proved it had seen the harsher side of Sherlock's experiments), a Thermos mug ("Tea," John explained), and –
"You're not putting that in my office."
"It's…" John sighed, his expression infinitely sad. "It's the most important part."
"Why in… you know what? I don't want to know. Go on. Won't that tea get cold?"
"It doesn't matter. He won't drink it anyway."
Sherlock was not surprised, that night, to find the afghan from the living room couch neatly folded on the seat of Lestrade's office chair.
He was not impressed to find a room-temperature mug of over-sweetened tea (he liked it over-sweetened; John knew; just one more weakness of his that John knew) set out on Lestrade's desk next to the computer.
But his lips compressed into a thin, tight line, thinking of Baker Street and late night cases and John, when he saw the skull staring down at him from the top of Lestrade's filing cabinet.
The first time it happened, he was just concluding a meeting with the Moroccan ambassador. Of course, he ignored the occurrence, not wanting to appear gauche or dismissive.
The second time it happened, he had hardly moved. The meeting was supposed to have finished, as he had other duties that required his attention; however, in the intervening two minutes, even morepeople had somehow slipped into the room, and he felt sure that they would all be demanding something of him. Stifling a sigh, he prepared for another tedious show of manners and paperwork.
By the time Mycroft Holmes finally escaped the meeting, it had happened four more times.
By the time he had returned home, and was able to safely check, he had received a total of eight texts, none of which were meant for him.
When Mycroft had had Sherlock's mobile cloned, it had seemed like a good idea. In fact, it had been a good idea, and continued to be a good idea.
But blast, whatever Sherlock had done now, it was irritating as hell.
By the time he had finished dining, he had received six more texts. Heaving the sigh of the long-suffering, he quickly scanned through the messages, and the two most recent sends caught his eye.
[7:34] I'm ordering Chinese. Your usual. Come back.
[7:39] Please.
A Holmesian eyebrow went up at this. Oh, has Sherlock had a falling out with Dr. Watson, then?Returning his phone to his pocket, Mycroft tried to console himself with logic. Really, how long could this last? The answer was far from consoling.
Days.
Breakfast, Tuesday morning:
For god's sake, Sherlock, where are you?
Office, filling out government forms:
You do realize this is childish.
Car, returning from the office:
Are you actually getting anything out of this? I've already apologized four times.
Wednsday, reviewing household reports:
How many times do you want me to say it?
Thursday, eating lunch:
When this is over, you're paying for my minutes.
Friday, taking exercise:
Mycroft, really, are you getting these? Ignore that, Sherlock.
He almost replied. Almost. Just to make the man shut up already. But he didn't want to become embroiled in whatever madness surrounded Sherlock now. Normally, he was quite happy to, of course, but this – this was peoplebusiness. He didn't deal with people that way – not their feelings, not their concerns, not their cares.
He snapped his phone shut with definitive finality and resumed his stroll, trying his best to act as though he hadn't a care in the world.
Even with his mobile set to vibrate, Mycroft lost hours of sleep. The fact that John was getting as little, if not less, did surprisingly little to smooth his ruffled feathers.
He simply could not take this anymore.
By Sunday afternoon, he had decided to intervene, and to hell with the consequences. It was time for this insanity to be over with. He needed his life back.
He went to bed that evening with the first good feeling in nearly a week.