Encounter

The Hellhole, in Lestrade's opinion, could not have been more aptly named. As he walked slowly amid the throngs of young, writhing bodies and cloying, vibrant flesh, he could very easily imagine that he had begun some sort of Dantean journey.

Halfway through my first week at the CID, I found that I was in a bleeding dance club, he mused. That was about the only bit of the Commedia he remembered. And about all he'd read, to be honest. Had the rest of it continued along that line, perhaps he would have had more trouble sleeping through it.

He tried to focus on walking like a woman as he skirted the pulsating crimson-lit dance floor, heading for the bar where he could sit down and more easily scope out any potential informants. As he approached an empty seat, however, the high heels proved to be too much for him, and he went down like a ton of bricks, dragging his ankle with him.

As he fell, biting his lower lip so as not to cry out, he felt a pair of slender arms wrap about his torso. The person attached to these arms grunted slightly, clearly expecting the damsel in distress to be a bit lighter.

"Mind how you go," muttered a bracing tenor in his ear. The man lifted him to his feet, helping him to a barstool.

"Thank you," managed Lestrade, doing his best to achieve a breathy feminine voice.

He smiled nervously at his rescuer. He was a young man, probably about five years younger than Lestrade himself, with amber hair coiffed elegantly about his brow, making him look a good deal older. When he smiled at the detective, however, his sea blue eyes glowed with more than a hint of mischief.

This one could be dangerous.

"Are you alright, miss. . .?"

"Brown," Lestrade managed. "Please, call me Gabby."

"Gabby." The man's voice held more than a touch of amusement as he looked over Lestrade's ensemble.

He knows. Damn it. He knows.

But the man said nothing. He merely held Lestrade's gaze.

"You haven't answered my question. Are you alright? That looked rather painful."

"Fine," gasped Lestrade, rising to his feet. He immediately regretted this decision, as blinding pain from his ankle made him reel once more.

The young man caught him again, easing him back onto the chair. "Hardy. You need a doctor."

"No," he said as emphatically as he could. "I'm really fine. Just a sprain, I think."

The man's eyes flitted over him with concern. "Fine. I may not be a doctor, but may I?"

Lestrade sighed. "Oh, all right. But don't you dare cause a scene."

The man smirked. "I won't promise you anything."

Lestrade cried out gently in pain as the man's string fingers probed at his ankle. But what concerned him more was the way his hand lingered there as he looked up to meet his eyes.

"Well, it isn't broken, but that was rather a close call. Perhaps heels aren't really your style, my dear."

Lestrade smiled weakly. "No, I don't wear them often," he replied honestly.

The man stood, shaking his head. "It's a shame. You shan't be dancing for at least a week on that leg. . . And I should very much like to ask you to dance."

Lestrade gulped. "R-really?"

"You are definitely the most interesting girl here, Gabby. Look around."

Lestrade complied.

"What do you see? Oversexed fleshpots, all. Not a brain cell between them, I should think. But you. There's something about you that's different. You've an intelligence about you, a sense of gravitas. And besides," he added smirking, "I do believe you're the first woman I can honestly say has fallen for me."

"That's true enough," replied Lestrade, laughing uncomfortably.

Who the hell are you? Please don't be wasting my time. I've a case to solve. . .

The man leaned in, whispering in Lestrade's ear. He shuddered as he felt his warm breath on the nape of his neck.

"Promise me. Promise me a dance."

Lestrade pulled away, frowning. "But I. . . I don't even know who you are!"

The man nodded, handing him a business card. "My name is Mycroft. You can call me Mycroft," he added with another slight smirk.

Lestrade looked down at the card.

Mycroft Holmes. Aide to Sir Walter Rhylstone, MP

Lestrade frowned. Rhylstone. . . The name was familiar. . .

"I'll be right back," he muttered to Mycroft. "I have to make a call."

Mycroft nodded. "Let me help you to the phone. It's the least I can do."

"Rhylstone?" crowed Frost triumphantly. "My god, Lestrade, you've hit the jackpot!"

"Sir?"

"He's the centre of the whole thing, allegedly. And you say you've met his aide?"

"Yes, sir," admitted Lestrade. He did not like where this was going.

"Well, good God, man, what are you still doing talking to me? Your orders are to work him as a contact. Whatever it takes. Do you understand?"

Lestrade frowned. "Whatever it takes, sir?"

"Yes, of course. What, are you squeamish, Lestrade?"

"N-no sir," he replied weakly.

"Good. Do not contact me again until you have your information. By all accounts, Sergeant Lestrade is on holiday."

"Right."

He hung up, looking outside at the young government aide who was smiling at him expectantly.

"I believe yes, I can promise you a dance," he said.

The young man beamed at him. "Fantastic. Can I buy you a drink?"