"Lestrade."

Greg answered his personal mobile with a certain degree of trepidation. Few people had the number, and it rarely rang, so when it began vibrating on the kitchen table at 9.30pm in a Sunday evening, displaying 'Unknown Number', he almost didn't answer.

"Detective Inspector," the familiar voice began, wry smirk barely disguised by the distance between the men, "Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft?" Greg responded, briefly considering asking how in earth he had obtained his personal mobile number before thinking better of it. Mycroft Holmes knew everybody's everything.

"How are you? How is Sherlock?" Greg dared to ask.

"My brother, Detective Inspector, is doing very well, thank you, and he is in fact the reason for my call."

Greg cringed, unsure what exactly that meant. He hoped it didn't mean that Sherlock had got himself into some sort of trouble that needed his involvement. He was fairly sure that, if it was something Mycroft Holmes couldn't fix, he himself wouldn't be much use.

"Do not be alarmed, Gregory." Mycroft continued, making rare use of the detective inspector's first name, "Sherlock is not in any trouble and does not require your help exactly. On the contrary, in fact. I believe that my brother may be of assistance to you in your investigations."