Chapter 2.
Greg Lestrade hated runners, hated them with a passion. There was no time to prepare, no time to organise a response, no time to get things ready and the runner was normally in such a state they couldn't even respond to simple commands, which meant more often than not the fleeing Pet was damaged sometimes severely or even in the end put out of its misery.
It was a waste of his time. He could, should be working on something a damn sight more important but no, the higher-ups didn't like runners either. Only their reasons were more to do with public relations and ensuring there were no awkward questions in Parliament about the care and safety of Pets, or from the lunatic fringe of the abolitionists. Some of those mad bastards had even been gaining airtime recently. Doing more harm than good in his humble opinion. Just gave the general public a target for their abuse and re-enforced their belief in their god-given inalienable right to capture, train and own a Pet. After all, the world knew that the British were Pet mad. Even though really it was a European tradition, unless you counted those insane buggers the Belgians and oddly the Portuguese who had both outlawed the owning of Pets years ago and had got into a pissing match with the rest of Europe over it.
The rest of Europe had retaliated by boycotting trade and travel for many years after the abolition. Now trade had picked up again, the countries were classed as pitiful oddities but they were getting more and more tourists who were curious about countries which such exotic beliefs that they had no Pets.
Here it was a legal right even if most of the public watching wouldn't have had the houseroom, money, time or patience to keep a Pet.
He had got the call for this one whilst they were waiting to take down a notorious gang of extortionists operating in the West End. Stupid bastards had taken on more than they could chew when they tried to frighten that big theatrical Impresario.
That man took risks all the time with his money and his ego wasn't about to let some common criminals skim from his hard earned profits, so he had given an award winning performance to the leader of the gang, agreed with all of their demands, then summoned the Mayor of London to tea and demanded that he get it sorted or he would take all his highly successful shows out of the West End, go to Broadway and make sure that no more of his insanely successful shows were produced in London.
The effect of the loss of theatre revenue on London was the stuff of nightmares for city officials and the powerful Mayor had acquiesced with all the alacrity of a fully trained Pet and Lestrade's division had been called in.
The police operation had been in the planning stages for six months and now he was expected to ditch that and leave it to his subordinates so that he could apprehend a pathetic escaped Pet from some rich and influential tosser's collection.
Only the best Detective Inspector on the force was capable of dealing with such an important matter, or at least that's what his new Chief Inspector saw fit to tell him every time he complained about being pulled from something important for something so fucking trivial. Northern wanker just wanted to lick the arses of the likes of Mycroft "minor position in the government" Holmes.
Which is why he was down by the commercial docks tonight as co-ordinating liaison for the New Scotland Yard, when he should have been leading his team on the West end sting. Instead he was near the riverside abandoned warehouses, with a team of the useless no-hopers who worked the Government Pet Retrieval Squad more commonly called the PRS on the look out for another escaped pathetic little creature.
As he left his car, and walked with no particular urgency to the so called PRS 'command centre' he overheard one of the losers say excitedly to his partner that this one was from the Holmes household itself, one of Mycroft's extensive collection.
Well, well, well so that's why he had received the call. Only the best for Mr Mycroft Holmes! The Chief Inspector would know that Mr Holmes himself wanted him on the search for his runner, and Lestrade's "spidey senses" lit up his warning radar like a six foot beacon on bonfire night.
"Everything by the book tonight lads" he growled at the squad, "Don't give me any cock-ups and you won't find my boot up your arse". They murmured nervously in agreement.
"Well come on you know the drill", he prompted with irritation, and the Sergeant in charge, arrogant idiot by the name of Anderson, dark haired, pale and gormless looking but with the instinctive self preservation of a back stabbing, traitorous coward, ran through the plan one more time to ensure that they all understood their roles.
They began to check their guns and handcuffs. Lestrade despaired, he really did, what useless twat thought it was a good idea to give these morons fucking firearms, if this lot weren't in PRS uniform, he'd have had them nicked for being Neanderthals and not having the capacity to put one foot in front of the other in civilised society. In fact he was sure those attributes were a pre-requisite for joining the PRS.
Lestrade called out firmly "Tazers only tonight, and the padded restraints. There better not be even a bruise on this one. I doubt the owner will be too happy with us if it is damaged or dead. No rough stuff, no slaps or walking into walls, nothing inappropriate, or I will give your names to Mr Holmes for your just rewards, do I make myself clear?"
There were startled looks at his determined features but they nodded obediently, if the DI was worried about this retrieval then they were going to be on their best behaviour.
They spread out in the standard retrieval pattern, head sets on, weapons in hand, cuffs on their belts, always in pairs, except for Lestrade, he always insisted that he worked alone as he was directing the squads and not in the front line.
The capture was remarkably easy; the runner was quickly found, cuffed and brought back to the PRS security van. Lestrade frowned and his brain was working overtime to run through all the likely scenarios. This just hit all his buttons. He was too old and too ugly for this shit. Logically it could only be a sting operation, but who was the focus of the operation? The PRS or DI Gregory Lestrade? He'd bet his last penny that this was somehow designed to trap him, what worried him was that he didn't know what for. Best work with the worst case scenario then, and everything was going to be done by the book.
A PRS medic gave the runner a once over to make sure it was okay for Lestrade to interview, before it would be released back into the custody of its owner for whatever punishment was deemed appropriate. As the Medic was about to walk away, Lestrade had a flash of intuition, he stopped him and asked about evidence of training marks. The Medic had looked at him confused for a second, and then shook his head with dawning puzzlement as he confirmed that there weren't any on her. Lestrade thanked him and sent him on his way.
Lestrade climbed into the back of the holding van, sat on the bench opposite to the kneeling figure and stared impassively; all the while his brain was processing what he was seeing, looking for patterns, threads, and clues to the reason behind this little piece of theatre.
The runner was female, long auburn hair hiding her face as she stared at the restraints holding her hands together. One ankle was chained to the holding ring on the floor of the van. She was still wearing her house uniform, so, so convenient for identification. His eyes narrowed. Her finger and toe nails were bare, perfectly manicured, she can't have been running long or her feet would have been in tattered bloody ribbons.
Normally the tracker device was implanted somewhere unobtrusive, inside the elbow, at the top of the thigh. Oddly the medic didn't mention it in his report, and the Holmes estate hadn't seen fit to provide the PRS with the frequency. So logically no tracker device on her person. A valuable pet like this not having a tracker, he didn't think so. He was dealing with a bunch of frigging amateurs, or they thought they were dealing with a frigging amateur. He could use that, he really could, he loved to be underestimated.
Lestrade waited patiently, for any kind of reaction from this particular runner. If she was an ordinary runner, by now they were normally sobbing in terror at the thought of the reception they would receive from their angry masters, by now they were normally begging for mercy, begging for sanctuary, or even begging to be put down, but not this perfect little specimen. She was unbelievably composed and unmarked for a runner.
Maybe he needed to shake things up a little, to find out what fucking mind games Mycroft Holmes was playing with him. Oh he knew damn well this was some sort of set up, not even a very good one, which surprised Lestrade because he knew how ruthlessly efficient Mr Holmes could be.
He deliberately reached across the runner and took down the thin short bamboo cane from the well appointed tool rack.
He could feel her eyes on him, underneath that glorious fall of hair, and saw the full body flinch as she heard the whistle and snap of the cane as he suddenly used his strength to switch it viciously through the air.
"You do know that the PRS are entitled to use all reasonable force in the apprehension and interrogation of an illegal runner" he asked calmly his voice so cold and deep, he could see the instinctive shudder that went through her. He smiled grimly; his voice had always been one of his best weapons in an interrogation. Then when the meaning of his words became clear, he saw how the unusually relaxed runner's body began to tense, and inwardly smirked.
He stroked the cane across her bare left foot, the one that was caught immobile by the ankle cuff and chain and she flung herself backwards to the van wall, finally looking up at him with a real reaction, fear and uncertainty. He could hear the way her breath quickened. Dear God she was exquisite, there was no way that this "Pet"would have been mistreated enough to want to run or even left alone enough to find the opportunity.
He saw her dark eyes widen as she looked at him, and the instinctive swallow, and he made his smile vicious. Play me for a mug would you missy he thought vengefully, well lets see how quickly Mycroft Holmes comes to your rescue, when we do this exactly by the book.
"Name of your Master or Mistress" he asked in a bored tone, she didn't answer quickly enough and the cane swished through the air and landed on the sole of her bare foot.
He didn't put any real force into it but it would definitely have stung, and he heard her shocked disbelieving cry of pain. Trained pet my arse, he thought with amusement.
"If I have to ask you twice, you will receive two extra stripes from the cane" he continued in a bored tone of voice.
"Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes is my master, sir" she spoke quickly, her cultured voice husky with fear and pain.
Before he could ask his next question, the van door was opened and Mycroft Holmes himself stood there, immaculately elegant in his grey three piece suit. Greg saw the relieved look the "runner" gave him before she dropped her head again. Greg's lips twitched with bitter amusement. So Mr Holmes didn't want his little pet hurt?
Before Holmes could say a word, Lestrade spoke calmly, his tone professionally indifferent
"I know you are eager for the return of your Pet sir, but you must understand that there is a due process to follow before I can allow her back into your custody. The interrogation must continue until I am satisfied that she wasn't assisted in any way in this illegal escape attempt. If there is any possibility of collusion, I have to know in order to nip this seditious activity in the bud and prosecute the criminals. Please return to your vehicle and I will have the Pet delivered to you once I am finished".
Lestrade pretended not to notice either, the panicked pleading glance the pet shot at her master, or the irritation and frustration which crossed Mycroft Holmes' usually bland countenance.
He had to fight the urge to smirk. Although the fear induced adrenaline was rushing round his body, he was actually enjoying the thought that he had spoilt Mycroft Holmes's little game. Lestrade gently closed the van door in his face and turned his attention back to the runner who was looking at him with absolute shock.
There was a sharp rap on the door and it was opened again, Mycroft was seething with rage and Lestrade wondered if he had gone too far, but then decided keeping Mycroft Holmes off balance and not thinking properly was a damn good tactic.
Greg sighed with blatant impatience but before he could speak to again, Mycroft spoke quickly "There seems to have been a mistake Detective Inspector Lestrade, this isn't a matter for the PRS after all" the frustration in his tone evident
Lestrade raised one eyebrow and offered mildly "An illegal runner is not a matter for the PRS Mr Holmes?" and loved the fact that Mycroft flushed with embarrassment at having to explain to him.
Holmes was suddenly the cool calm collected urbane politician and he focused his attention on the policeman. Lestrade refused to let it intimidate him, or distract him; he kept his thoughts on the matter at hand. He had built his career on being smart enough to be trusted and to get things done but not interesting enough to come to the attention of anyone truly dangerous. So why was the most dangerous man in the British Government now fucking focused on him?
"This has been a little experiment, a check if you will into the efficiency of the PRS" Mycroft began smoothly and Lestrade could have kicked himself when he reacted angrily to the piece of bullshit and interrupted him
"Do you mean to tell me that I was pulled out of a major operation for a fu.. for a test" he had thought it was something along those lines and he was surprised at how incensed he was when he heard it put into words by the arrogant aristocratic dickhead in front of him.
Lestrade inwardly winced as those incredible blue eyes sharpened at his words and repeated "Zip it Greg" like a mantra inside his head.
"That's only part of the objective Detective Inspector" Mycroft soothed smoothly "Now if you would be kind enough to release my employee, who's performance was less than satisfactory" he turned his head to glare at the flinching woman chained to the wall, then continued as if there was no interruption "and if you can spare me some of your valuable time, I have a proposition for you" and he gazed unblinking at Lestrade until Greg nodded slightly.
Then he gave a satisfied smile which raised Lestrade's anxiety levels to new heights "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit" his internal mantra changed and became stuck in a loop.
Twenty minutes later, Lestrade slid into the enormous black saloon holding Mycroft Holmes and his umbrella and prayed to any deity that would listen, that he would actually get out of this beast of a car alive...
The little episode with Mycroft Holmes had unsettled him. He wasn't a particularly ambitious man, he worked hard at his job and he was damn good at it, but he didn't want to advance much further because then it wasn't police work anymore, it was fucking politics and he was a copper through to his marrow bone.
He didn't want to have to sooth some tosser's ego so that he could get the budget he needed to run a department, no he was best at making a difference and putting the scumbags away. It was an old fashioned concept but he actually believed in justice and serving not only the people that paid his wages but all those vulnerable and downtrodden souls who had no-one else to look after them or make sure that they received justice and that's what he wanted to do. That's the only thing he had truly ever wanted to do. Probably the true reason for his failed marriage, beside the undisputed fact that she was an adulterous slut.
Now for some reason he had come to the attention of the most dangerous man in the British Government and he knew what it meant, he knew he had now become part of the Holmes spider web and his life wasn't going to be his own any more. He was already sweeping his flat for bugs and cameras and had found them, they would have to remain but at least he knew they were there, he was now walking the Holmes tightrope and he had better keep his balance.
But there was a deeply buried streak of rebelliousness in Greg Lestrade, he had had his "bad boy" stage when he was much younger and had happily given it up when he had met his wife because having a family meant more to him, he loved his job most of the time and even when he and his wife had divorced he had tried to concentrate on the bigger picture and not lose himself in his old ways, although now and again he cut lose which released the stress and pressure of work, so that he could focus again on what was important.
Now his anger at the whole situation had triggered that rebellious streak. He knew it was dangerous, he knew it was stupid, but he also knew it was necessary or he would soon commit some greater error which would blow his whole world apart, which was why had he accepted young Ian Dimmock's offer of a spare bed after he and his police team had spent the evening in the pub celebrating a successful raid.
It was his perfect alibi and there were no cameras or bugs in Dimmock's place, he checked every time he went, and he made sure he popped by frequently, as a side benefit Emma Dimmock was a really good cook. He even kept an overnight bag there which they all laughed about.
So three hours later Greg was walking down by the river, his soft soled black shoes kept his steps silent, and he blended in with the shadows as he was dressed totally in black, including the black hoody, which he had pulled up over his head to make sure his distinctive silver hair was covered and not visible in the darkness. He wasn't in bad shape for a man his age. He made sure he kept fit enough to do his job properly, and be able to indulge his rebel nature when he needed to.
He had been doing this so long, dear god it must be twenty years now, he knew the best places, the best times and he knew where the street cameras were active and where they weren't. In the silence of the dark early hours of the morning, he kept his senses focused on the area around him. It was a dead end, perfect for his purposes.
He had his earpiece in and was listening to the excited chatter on the radio. They were headed in his direction. He smiled fiercely with anticipation as the adrenaline pumped through his body. He leant back against the wall, immersed in the shadows, invisible to the runner and the PRS goon behind him.
He heard the despairing whimper of the little runner when he realised that he was trapped in a dead end and the gloating snigger of the PRS officer behind him. He heard the crack of the bull whip as the PRS officer snarled,
"Nowhere left to run you little bastard, I'm going to teach you a lesson for making me chase you, and for daring to leave your master in the first place. Then its play time"
The young runner screamed in pain and sobbed hysterically, and the PRS man laughed again. Lestrade knew that laugh, it was that arsewipe trigger-happy sadistic moron Roylott, a hulking great brute who was fast on his feet and with his fists, and too many of his pursuits ended with either a fucking ambulance or a body bag.
Greg Lestrade hated runners, hated them with a passion. He stepped out of the shadows, and the terrified runner and the PRS goon turned to stare at him in surprise.
"Boss?" the PRS guy asked confused, then smiled in understanding as he saw Greg pull out the gun. "Bit irregular Boss, but this one doesn't belong to anyone significant and we can always say he jumped in the river to get away" the goon laughed sadistically. "Serves the little bastard right for running, but let me have some fun with him first"
The young runner fell to his knees, trembling like a leaf, his face pale and his terrified eyes stared straight up into Lestrade's hard unwavering gaze.
"Please sir don't, please, please" the young boy begged through his sobs, tears slipping down his cheeks as if he was too afraid to move to brush them away. His words were echoed by Roylott's cruel laughter
Lestrade lifted the gun and aimed it, he only needed one shot. It would be a mercy killing. He was a damn good shot, practiced enough at the Police range, and had won some trophies for his skill.
The helpless runner curled up into a foetal ball, whimpering for his mother, Lestrade studied him impassively for a moment, almost wanting to give him some kind words but he shook off the ridiculous sentiment, raised the weapon and pulled the trigger. He was right it had only taken one shot. He studied his handiwork with objective satisfaction before he flung the gun in the river; it had been confiscated from a gang member three months before and became "lost" in the system before there had been time for it to be properly registered, catalogued and recorded. When they found the body it would look like he had been an unfortunate victim caught up in a turf war.
He turned his attention to the other participant of this little incident and for the first time in the last forty eight hours, he relaxed slightly, a proper smile warmed his face, and his intense brown eyes softened.
The young runner uncurled himself from the ground and stared at what was left of the dead face of the PRS man. He vomited violently and repeatedly.
Greg sighed, more forensics to sort out, but he could make it look like the runner had been taken in the turf war. The Authorities knew that Pets didn't last long with gangs, they wouldn't be expecting this one to be found alive, and it would give them a good excuse for a purge on the local gangs. Win-win scenario when it came to it.
He congratulated himself, he was correct; it had been a mercy killing. A mercy to any future poor little bugger who decided to run and now wouldn't have that evil bastard Roylott to deal with. He had no compunction about ridding the Earth of scum like that.
He spoke into the short wave radio "Ian, get your arse into gear, and get the van over here now, we haven't got long before they come looking for him, tell Emma the clothes need to fit a 16 or 17 year old, approx 5'7", weighing about 120-125lbs," He looked down at the shivering, disbelieving kid staring up at him and grinned kindly "What size trainers lad?"
"Size 6 Sir" the boy whispered, answering obediently despite the fact his teeth were chattering in his shock. Lestrade leant down and helped him to his feet as he relayed that to Dimmock and his wife. He held the kid close, rubbing his hands up and down the poor thin arms in an attempt to block the cold and the intense shivering and give him some human warmth and comfort.
"I don't understand Sir" the boy whispered, still terrified. Lestrade looked him straight in the eye. "You are safe now; you will be taken somewhere where no-one will ever be able to claim you as a Pet ever again. But for the next five days you will obey every instruction given to you for your own safety and after that you don't have to obey anyone ever again. It doesn't matter if you understand, in five days time you will be in a country where you will be free."
Greg Lestrade hated runners, hated them with a passion, because for the most part it meant he couldn't do anything to help them, but he fucking hated the PRS more, he hated the sadistic evil bastards they employed to hunt down defenceless vulnerable Pets who had found the courage and opportunity to flee from their nightmare lives, he fucking hated the fact that Pets were considered a normal part of life in his country, and he would do all he could to upset that particular applecart.
His grandfather, Remy Lestrade who had moved to this country from Belgium because he had fallen in love with a likeminded Englishwoman, had started the network of escape routes for any runner he was lucky enough to find and recruited reliable sympathetic people to the cause.
Greg was still sometimes overwhelmed at his wily old Grandpere's courage and ingenuity because he had been under suspicion as a Belgian anyway, and had worked hard all his life to ostensibly prove to his new country that he could be trusted. Each generation of Lestrades had used the network, made it safer, or worked in unsuspected ways which inflicted damage on the whole obscene system, because the Lestrades had always been respectable, law abiding stalwart trusted members of the community.
He rarely had any direct contact with the network these days because his position as DI was making him too recognisable. He fed the organisation information when he could but things had become difficult with the new Chief Inspector insisting that he was the lead with the retrieval squads so he had taken a back seat.
And now Mycroft Holmes had come to him with his proposition. Too many runners were getting away. The retrieval rate had been dropping steadily for the last ten years (Lestrade had felt the surge of satisfaction at Mycrofts words but he had remained an impassive professional waiting for his orders)and Mycroft Holmes had been tasked with solving the problem, so he had watched Lestrade, had liked the way he worked, he was efficient, got results and now Mycroft Holmes wanted him to lead a task force specifically formed to shut the escape networks down.
Hell's clanging bells and little bloody fishes!
It would be fucking funny if it wasn't so terrifying. He wasn't worried for himself but for all those good people that ran the networks; people like Ian and Emma Dimmock who he was proud to call his friends, if they were caught it would be prison or Pet training for them and their families.
Their Government did not look kindly on any interference in the Pet laws and treated such interference with a heavy and unforgiving hand.
Greg Lestrade knew that his long term future was not good, he was so screwed but he would help his people before Holmes got to them and then finally him.
Greg Lestrade hated runners; he hated them with a passion, because the poor bastards shouldn't be in that position in the first place. If they were brave enough to run then he had the moral duty to help them, and by God he would, fucking Mycroft Holmes be damned.
AN:
Apologies for the delay in posting. There have been some technical problems with the precious laptop and I also turned into a sickie, self pitying coughing machine. But all better now. Both of us!
Thank you so much to all you lovely people for reading and reviewing and the encouragement to continue. I have responded personally to the reviews where I could but obviously when they are guest I can't so can I just say I was overwhelmed by your kindness and wonderful responses. Thank you thank you thank you.
One of the guest reviews mentioned Gregory coming to the rescue and so chapter two was born, even though I wanted to get back to Molly and Sherlock. I must admit I have a soft spot for the DI and think he would make a great subversive hero, therefore he got a whole chapter to himself, but it does actually advance the taking on the mighty Mycroft Holmes.
The next chapter will be about Molly, unless one of you brilliant people come up with something that triggers my fancy and sends me off an different plot tangent. Please let me know what you think of this chapter.
Disclaimers: Not mine only enjoying using the characters, no infringement intended.