Setting down his empty pint of bitters, Greg Lestrade winced as the kick went wide of the goal. The screen flickered, the picture distorted and Lestrade started as the profile of a face he'd hoped never to see again flicked over the screen. 'Bugger,' he thought as patrons began to yell at the telly.
While the bar raged around him, he pealed a few pounds out of his billfold and tossed them at the barkeep, then strode from the bar as his mind whirling furiously. A thousand thoughts went through his brain but he kept circling back to one, 'seriously, now?' No one takes over Britain's telly in the middle of one of the most watched match ups without a serious motive, hell, no one takes over Britain's broadcasts ever. This broadcast was a message and there was no doubt in his mind as to whom it was for.
He knew about Sherlock's exile, was one of the few who did. While they never spoke of it, Mycroft hadn't always been the British Government and Lestrade hadn't always been homicide. When things were bad and Mycroft needed someone to bail out his little brother, he dealt with his 'dear friend at New Scotland Yard'. It was rubbish, he knew it and Mycroft knew it. Still, there was debt there, owed to him, owed to Mycroft and owed for the other that neither of them ever spoke about.
They would be at the hangar still, Mycroft, Mary and John. He glanced around quickly, surveying the area about him, well aware of Moriarty's previous scheme. Don't be a git, Lestrade chastised himself, If he meant you dead now, you'd be dead. It'll be very different targets this time, different goals. Three years of quiet and now this, whatever it is, it'll be big' He was certain that Mycroft had protection around the clock at Baker Street, Sherlock may be facing certain doom but hell hath no fury like a consulting detective with an injured landlady. Pulling his peacoat tight about him, he signalled for a cab and gave instructions to be driven to St. Bartholomew's.
His thoughts drifted in the cab, he wasn't looking forward to being the bearer of bad news and lately that's all he seemed to be when it came to Molly. As helpful as the Holmes brothers could be, there was a high price to being their friend and he hadn't particularly liked either brother for leaving the task of telling Molly about Sherlock's shooting, or Sherlock shooting Magnusson for that matter to him. The years had toughened the pathologist but no one doubted that she was still completely barmy about the youngest Holmes.
The cabbie cleared his throat, signalling their arrival. Lestrade paid the man and made his way through the empty corridors that lead to the morgue. He stopped a few feet in front of the door, his brain screaming at him, noting the droplets of blood in front of the door. Cautiously he approached the doors pushing them open.
"Bloody hell!" Reaching for his cell-phone he fired off a fast text hoping against odds for a miracle.