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It took Greg Lestrade a few minutes to get his bearings as people rushed around him on the pavement. It had been a while since he'd spent any time in Mayfair, though looking at the neat shops and smartly dressed patrons spilling out of various restaurants, he considered the company he would be keeping very shortly and understood why this venue had been chosen.
A regular pub in the general direction of Baker Street would be nice for regular ales and possibly a meet-up during an investigation, but this was something out of Greg's usual sphere. The same could be said for what he reckoned he was about to experience, too.
When he'd gotten a text from Sherlock earlier in the week asking him to come out (Drinks and dinner and other things 'people who like each other do.' I have no idea why - SH), Greg had first thought it was some sort of bizarre joke from the consulting detective. In all the years he'd known Sherlock Holmes, the man hadn't even asked him to a cup of coffee, let alone “drinks and dinner.” And 'people who like each other?' As in 'people who knew each others first names'? Because considering Sherlock apparently hadn't known his until very recently, Greg couldn't really understand why he, of all people, was receiving such an invitation.
Lestrade had been about to text Sherlock to ask if he'd hit his head or if – god forbid – had been tripling up on the nicotine patches again, when a second text came:
My brother will be in attendance. Be warned. - SH
That had knocked Greg for a loop. He stared hard at the message for several moments. It wasn't a joke. He had no idea what it was, but the minute Mycroft Holmes was brought into anything, it ceased to be a joke.
Lestrade had known the Holmes brothers long enough to know that getting them together in a confined space for any length of time was about as harmless as putting nitroglycerine in a warm oven. In fact, save for a few times during Sherlock's emergence from rehab, Greg couldn't remember seeing Sherlock and Mycroft in each others' company – voluntarily – in the recent past. It had certainly been some time before Sherlock had moved into Baker Street with John Watson, so quite a long time ago indeed. Mycroft had never been at 221B at any time Greg had been there, and he suspected it was the same the other way round.
Still puzzling over the whole bizarre invitation, Greg had rung John, who was working again – this time as a locum in a walk-in surgery in Woolwich – to ask him what the hell was going on.
Sounding slightly harried amid a chorus of crying infants and shrill-sounding parents, John had assured him that the invite was genuine, and that Sherlock had felt that “after Baskerville he ought to do something nice for his brother.”
Then came a half-choking, half-sobbing sound of someone vomiting and John's sharp “Oh bloody hell! –” before he abruptly rang off.
That set an inauspicious note, but as Greg texted Sherlock back to ask for a date, a time and a place, he reflected that John's explanation was about the only thing that made sense.
Greg still had no idea what exactly had gone on out on the moors of Devon three weeks earlier. He especially had no idea what that thing had been he'd shot at or how that bloody Doctor Frankland had worked at the Baskerville facility for so long and hadn't factored in that minefield.
Darkness or no darkness, Greg reckoned that if it had been him that had spent time just at the edge of a field of ordnance that could blow him into bits the moment he crossed the threshold, he would have kept a bloody map in his head with the danger zones outlined in red. Sure, the bloke had been mad as hell, as it had turned out, and been fleeing a certain jail sentence for murder among other crimes that Greg still didn't quite understand, but still … what a way to go.
Truth be told, the whole Baskerville escapade was beginning to fade from Lestrade's mind, much like he hoped would be the case with the hallucinations poor young Henry Norris had been subjected to ever since going back to the hollow where his father had died.
Greg had come in on the middle of things, and even as he'd read John's write-up of the case on the blog, there were aspects of the case that were lost on him, and he figured it was better if it stayed that way.
But one thing Greg did remember and always would remember was the role Mycroft Holmes had played in getting him down there.
Greg had been three hours in his new “home,” a small flat just outside of Richmond, a temporary – he'd hoped – landing spot as he and Vivian navigated their pending divorce and he got his head sorted and adjusted to life as a suddenly single man. Greg had been removing his sandy, sodden clothing from his well-worn suitcase thinking about all that had transpired in the previous seven days.
The week in Tenerife had provided balm for his frazzled mind and soul, and as he sat out on the beach, soaking up the sun and trying not to ogle pretty women and equally pretty men strutting around nothing but postage stamp-sized swimwear and a lot of confidence, Greg wondered what the next part of his life would be like. He'd been married nearly 20 years, and now what? What was in store for a man of mid-40s, greying, with a bit of a paunch beginning, weariness under his eyes and very little to look forward in his job except a decent pension – if he didn't stop a bullet first?
Greg had thought that his dire thoughts had oozed out through his pores, creating an invisible but pungent shield of “Damaged Goods, Stay Away,” because though he got plenty of contemplative looks from both genders during his week in paradise, no one said more than hello to him. He tried being friendly. He tried striking up conversations with fellow Brits in the queue. He even tried reading a book on the beach hoping that might spark someone to ask him what book was so amazing that he'd spend his time under an umbrella and not out in the beyond-blue waters. Nothing.
It wasn't until his last night there that Greg found out the real reason it was happening. In the queue for dinner at the resort that night, a tall, dark man gave him more than a searching look and had the beginnings of a seductive smile going before he glanced downward. The man had looked up at him, his smile puzzled now, and he'd sauntered away apparently after new prey. Confused, Greg followed his glance and saw what had caught the man's eye – his wedding band.
Greg had groaned when it all hit him at once what must have been going on. The people eyeing him up probably saw the ring and shrugged, figuring that his wife was in the spa or in the water or at the bar getting one of those deliciously strong mixed drinks for them to share. It had become so much a part of him that it was weightless and almost unobtrusive, the burnished gold almost blending into his nut-brown skin.
In his hotel room later, he wrenched it off, the first time he'd done so in nearly a decade, and the last time was to get it resized. Greg stared at the wide pale line on his left ring finger and thought about the case that had brought Dr. John Watson into his life: A Study in Pink.
The dead woman in pink, who had been in the press throng earlier when Lestrade had been floundering and Sherlock had been his usual infuriating self. Who'd died scratching the name of her dead daughter into the ground and as such had left them the vital clue that allowed Sherlock (and John) to … get the killer. Who'd been a repeat adulteress, to hear Sherlock tell it, and who'd wrenched the wedding band from her finger so often that the underside was the only thing about it that had shone.
He hadn't been thinking about that, really, when he'd gotten back to London, and had gone to the new flat he'd taken shortly before his impromptu holiday. Lestrade hadn't been thinking much of anything as he'd transferred his soiled clothes to a bag to be taken to the cleaners and thought about how he'd spend the next few days before he had to go back to work.
Greg had been thinking on that last point when the knock had come. He had been surprised to have a visitor so soon, but not very. He'd put in the change of address at the Yard. John knew, and through him, Sherlock, did, too, and Greg had a feeling that Dimmock or whoever had been in charge in his absence hadn't exactly indulged the consulting detective's desires for “interesting” cases. Though, realistically, it could be just about anyone coming round, save his soon-to-be-ex-wife.
And yet it hadn't been “just anyone” coming round. It had been Mycroft Holmes, looking about as rumpled as his impeccable wardrobe would allow and with worry behind his dark-blue eyes, though his voice had been calm enough when he'd informed Greg that Sherlock and John seemed to have gotten into some sort of “situation” in Dartmoor that might require a more deft touch than the country constables could give it.
Greg was aware that he could have said anything: That he was just back from holiday, literally, and just settling into his new flat and didn't have time to play babysitter or gaoler for Sherlock and John. That he'd had his fill of traveling for a good while and had a lot to get sorted. That he didn't fancy that part of England very much, especially as Viv had family just a stone's throw away, in Dorset.
Or he could have just told the truth; that he was alone and lonely and that this was not how he expected to spend the part of his life as he approached his fifth decade and that haring off after Sherlock and John was much less preferable to slouching on the secondhand couch he'd bought from a colleague on the Drugs Squad and watching telly and trying to forget much of his life had ever happened.
But he hadn't said that, or given any of the other excuses, because Mycroft Holmes had pulled out the big guns: Not referencing his shadowy position in – or as, depending on whom you talked to – the British Government, and not making threats, promises or bribes.
He had simply said “please.”
To be sure, it was a nice “please,” said a sort of quietly dignified way that seemed to be second nature to anyone who wore a waistcoat and watch fob in this day and age. It was simple, effective, and heartfelt, and had thrust Greg back in time almost six years, to a slightly younger man, in slightly darker pinstripes, standing inside the Yard asking to see his brother, a long-boned, wreck of a man, high on god knows what and twitching madly in a holding cell. He remembered that same quiet “please” and that same sadness and tinge of desperation shadowed in the smartly dressed man's blue eyes.
And so, just as he had conducted the younger Mycroft Holmes to the cell holding the younger Sherlock Holmes without protest all those years ago, Lestrade had simply sighed, moved aside for Mycroft to enter his new “home” and looked around for some clean clothes when Mycroft had brandished a train ticket and a reservation slip to some sort of vegetarian B&B right off the moor ...
Greg surfaced from his memories just as he got to the street the pub was on. He shook his head with a grin. After Baskerville, Sherlock wanted to do something “nice for his brother”? It was about bloody time.
The issue was, Greg wasn't quite sure how he fit into this whole facet of Sherlock's sudden altruism. Being invited out with Sherlock and John was one thing. That had happened a few times and he and John were often left to make conversation while Sherlock texted various parties and muttered things under his breath that made no sense to anyone.
But being invited out with John, Sherlock and Mycroft put a different spin on things. It really did have a tinge of a double-date, with Sherlock and John being one “couple,” and Greg and Mycroft being the other. Greg still didn't know Sherlock's preferences in that regard, and despite the looks he saw exchanged between the consulting detective and the Army doctor, Greg was inclined to believe that John was straight … well, mostly anyway, but who knew? Sally, for one, swore that John was bending over for Sherlock, but Lestrade didn't think so and didn't really want to think about it anyway.
Mycroft, however, was a different story. Greg could admit to himself that he was intrigued by and attracted to the man. It was as much about the way Mycroft looked and carried himself as it was about the obvious love he had for his younger brother and the lengths he was willing to go to keep him out of harm's way – even if most of the time his efforts went unrewarded at best and openly mocked and scorned at worst. Lestrade had always found loyalty, especially to one's family, to be a highly attractive trait.
The spray of freckles across the tall man's nose didn't hurt, either.
So Greg could acknowledge, privately, that he was interested in seeing Mycroft outside his normal role of vaguely terrifying government functionary and/or concerned relative. In all the years he'd known him, Greg had never had the opportunity to view Mycroft in a purely social setting. He'd expected Mycroft to be in attendance at Sherlock and John's holiday party, but it was just as well that he hadn't been since Greg had been … preoccupied and, later, devastated.
But now he would get the opportunity to see Mycroft relaxed … or what passed for it with him. Just enjoying a night out with friends, a few drinks, a good meal, and some nice conversation.
Or, at least as close to all of that as they could get with Sherlock there.
Greg was nearly vibrating in anticipation as he entered a bright and cheery space with a well-heeled crowd mingling and drinking. It was certainly not the sort of dank and dark pub with regulars nursing pints and crying over the Arsenal score.
There was beer being consumed, but at a quick glance, it was certainly not the bog standard found pouring out of the taps of most pubs. There was telly on, but no sport playing. Seemed to be some sort of current events program with a news reader standing in front of a map of what looked to be New Zealand.
Greg breathed in and then out. This certainly seemed like the sort of place that would be picked out by a Holmes, and he was glad that he'd erred on the side of caution and dressed in decent trousers and a collared shirt. He'd even spritzed on some cologne for reasons he didn't want to think about too closely.
He glanced over the people in the pub, looking for Sherlock's unruly curls or John's dark jacket, and instead found himself locking eyes almost instantly with Mycroft Holmes.
Greg gaped for a moment. He wasn't sure how long Mycroft had been watching him or if he'd been watching him at all. They may have just happened to look round at the same time. He was at the bar, a mug of something foaming and cold – at least it looked cold – to hand.
Greg couldn't see Mycroft's ever-present brolly, though it might have been resting on the tool next to him, which was empty. The stool on the other side of Mycroft was occupied by a thin, smartly dressed man scowling at a mobile phone.
He blinked. What he also couldn't see was Mycroft's waistcoat. But that was probably because he wasn't wearing one, which was in and of itself a cause to stare at the man. In fact, he was dressed significantly down in just a snowy white shirt open at the collar and sleeves rolled up. Even his hair looked relaxed, not quite as dark and tamed with product, curling slightly toward his forehead. He could've almost been just another bloke relaxing in his jeans with a cold pint. Though ... Greg doubted seriously that he was wearing jeans. This was still Mycroft Holmes, after all.
Greg grinned at him and Mycroft smiled back. Lestrade thought he could detect a slight tinge of relief in the blue eyes, but that could have been a trick of the light. Neither Sherlock nor John were anywhere to be seen and Greg hurried over, knowing all too well what it was like to be the first one to arrive somewhere and try to look calm and collected and not like a discarded toy as he waited for his group to arrive.
“Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft as soon as Greg got near enough to hear him. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” Greg said, sliding onto the stool next to Mycroft, which incidentally did not contain a brolly. In fact, it looked as if Mycroft hadn't brought one and that almost shocked Greg. It was almost like going out without pants for anyone else … and he slowly blushed to think of why his mind had immediately gone there.
He also noted that Mycroft was not wearing jeans, but nicely pressed trousers probably a tick below his standard office wear. There weren't any pinstripes in evidence, anyway. It also looked as if he were wearing pants.
Greg blushed again and tried not to notice that somewhere in the deep recesses of his psyche, he was a bit disappointed about that last item.
He eyed Mycroft's half-full mug. “I can tell that's not a Fullers. Strongbow?”
"No, Boddingtons. I haven't had one in ages. It seemed the right thing to order.” Mycroft looked at his pint and then over at Greg. “But you look as if you have a suggestion to make?”
“Yeah, I do.” Greg smiled. “Wave the barkeep over so I can get one. I'm gasping.”
Mycroft nodded and raised his hand to signal the man hovering nearby and doing a poor job of not-eavesdropping.
“Don't feel that you have to bolt it,” said Mycroft after Greg gave his order. “I've been exchanging texts with my brother. He said he will be slightly delayed. Something about a case he is 'looking into' for you: A murder out in Knightsbridge?”
Greg frowned. “He's dealing with that tonight? What about John? Where's he?”
“Apparently there's some sort of stomach ailment going around the surgery that has affected patients and doctors alike,” said Mycroft. “Quite a few doctors have been unable to come in to work and so John is even busier than usual, though I would imagine he will be here as soon as he can. He does have to come all the way from Woolwich.”
Greg grimaced when he thought of the abrupt end of their last phone call. Poor John.
“In that case, John'll need a pint more than I do,” Greg said, and then his eyes widened when something Mycroft said earlier suddenly clicked with him.
“Wait. Murder in Knightsbridge? The Apley thing?” Greg stared. “Sherlock's working that? When I mentioned it earlier this week he more or less told me to shove it up my arse!”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “That's not his usual response to homicide, especially as he's recently complained that business, such as it is, has hit a lull.”
“Yeah, well, he thought this one was boring,” said Greg. “Said watching a goat piss uphill would provide better entertainment.”
“Such interesting metaphors he picked up during his little adventure in the country.” Mycroft was smirking. “Though when it comes to Baskerville, I wouldn't have any doubt that such a thing could happen. With the goats, I mean.”
Greg tried to picture it. Couldn't.
“I … yeah.” He coughed. “Wouldn't be surprised.”
“Strangulation or asphyxiation?”
The change of subject, and the nature of said change, was so abrupt that Greg just stared for awhile.
“... What?”
“You said Sherlock found the case boring,” Mycroft said. “To my knowledge, he only finds two causes of death to be of little interest to him: death by strangulation and death by asphyxiation. Which was it in the case of the dearly departed party in Knightsbridge?”
“Er ...” Greg reckoned he should be used to this sort of thing from Mycroft Holmes by now, except it was not possible to be prepared for a sentence like that from anyone. Ever.
"Strangled. The bloke was strangled. How did you ...”
“Ah. Yes.” Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock finds strangulation to be one of the dullest and most inefficient methods of homicide that exists.”
Greg could find nothing to say to that, and neither could the barkeep, who arrived just on that cheery note with his pint. The man gave Mycroft a long, sideways glance before putting Greg's drink in front of him and moving away. Somewhat wearily, Greg patted his pocket, hoping that his warrant card was where he'd left it and Sherlock hadn't been up to any of his old tricks. Something told Lestrade that he might need to show some credentials before too long, if he and Mycroft didn't find something else to talk about.
“Dull? Inefficient?” Greg gave Mycroft a disbelieving look. “We are talking about murder here.”
“Yes, but not Sherlock's sort of murder.”
Mycroft paused to have a long pull on his drink. Out of the corner of his eye, Greg studied the strong, clean lines Mycroft's profile: the high forehead and straight nose ... the strong jaw and long, graceful neck that flowed seamlessly into a set of broad shoulders.
If he were just meeting Mycroft now, in this pub, Greg reckoned he wouldn't have associated governments, designer umbrellas, or looming vehicles with him. The man he was surreptitiously studying simply looked just like any attractive, professional bloke relaxing at his local –
(Well, not just any bloke. A Holmes, even in a button-down and casual trousers, was never going to be just like any bloke.)
– having a good beer and waiting to see what the evening would bring.
Greg wished he had an answer to that question about what the evening would bring. Well, he did have one, but he wasn't quite sure it was one he wanted to express in this setting, where everyone was talking in polite indoor tones. He didn't even have the cover of telly to blanket his voice.
Mycroft put his mug down and looked at Greg.
“I apologize, Detective Inspector. You're quite right. There is a person dead. I simply mentioned it as I know my brother's mind and how it functions. I am as surprised as you are that he decided to take on this particular case.”
Lestrade shrugged. “He gets bored easily. I do know that. Still, I'm not sure I know or even want to know what's dull and inefficient about choking the life out of some poor sot.”
“I think you'd have to admit, that as a method, it's not the most expedient way to dispatch someone.”
Greg frowned. “Fine, but not everyone bent on doing murder has access to … I dunno … a Browning L9A1.”
“True. Or even a Browning L105A1.”
Greg and Mycroft grinned at each other before looking out toward the front door of the pub. Still no sign of Sherlock. Or John, for that matter.
“Right. So a gun would be quicker, yeah, but it's not as easy as all that. Sometimes a murdering bastard has to improvise.”
"Exactly.” Mycroft was nodding. “And in that, you have some idea of who your murdering bastard actually is. At least in this case in Knightsbridge.”
Greg took another good swallow of his beer, figuring he was probably going to need it. “How's that?”
“Well, let's take a career criminal,” said Mycroft reasonably. “Nothing flashy, just the garden-variety thief who possibly dabbles in strong-arm tactics. Such a person would procure a weapon because he fancies himself a professional. Mucking around is not in his playbook. He'd rather not use violence, perhaps, but if he does, he wants it to be quick, unerring, and entirely impersonal. It doesn't get much more impersonal than a bullet in one's brain. Or even in one's heart.
“But an amateur? He has no such thoughts. He usually is nervous, terrified, but driven by need – need to procure drugs or drink or even sustenance – and he takes the chance. He carries no weapons because he has no forethought about killing or murder. He needs his quick high and he needs a quick, uncomplicated strike. But he may run into someone who won't give up their billfold or purse willingly and quietly. He pleads with them to remain calm. They do not. This sort of thief enters into these situations with frayed nerves at the start – the least setback will cause him to snap. So if he cannot persuade his victim to be silent, then he will silence them … with his hands around their neck.”
Lestrade thought that over, nodding slowly. “Sure. I won't say I haven't come across that scenario over the years. Would-be housebreaker losing his head, that sort of thing.”
“Precisely. And that is why such cases typically don't intrigue my brother. There is nothing really to solve. He considers strangulation either a crime of opportunity, as I have outlined, or one of passion – meaning that almost certainly the murder was carried out by a relative, as it takes a great deal of hate to choke the life out of a person … and in my experience, that sort of hate is limited to those who share a bond with the victim by blood or marriage.”
Mycroft paused for a sip of his drink. “There are exceptions, of course. But not many. Was there anything stolen in this case?”
"No. Nothing. The bloke was loaded, too."
Mycroft nodded again. "Then he was killed by a family member. He was very likely not married, older, I would imagine. Lived alone? A distant relative then ..."
Greg was about to reply when out of the corner of his eye he saw the barkeep looking at them with thinly disguised suspicion. With a small grin, Greg held up his hand.
“Hold it. Before you say another word, I need you to make me a promise.”
Mycroft's eyebrows inched up. “A promise?”
“Yeah,” said Greg. “Likely we should calm down on the murder talk. After this, maybe we could change the subject?”
Mycroft averted his eyes. “I apologize, Detective Inspector. It wasn't my intention to bore you. I simply …”
“No, no, you're not boring me,” Greg said in a rush, wanting Mycroft's eyes on him again and wishing he could kick himself for souring the mood. “It's just that this is supposed to be a night out for mates to tip a few back and have a good meal. Not to mention the barkeep looks like he's about to either haul us out or call the Yard.”
Mycroft glanced up. “If I were him, I'd be more concerned about being sacked for theft and on that untreated hernia that will surely lead to a strangulated bowel if he doesn't get over his aversion of the NHS to have it seen to, than on any casual conversation his patrons might be having.”
Startled, Greg looked over at the man, who was now polishing some shot glasses. Business had slowed way down. Many who'd been at the bar were either sitting at one of the smart tables nearest the windows or had left altogether.
“Theft? Hernia? How ...” He shook his head at Mycroft's look. “Never mind. If there's anything I know about you and Sherlock, it's that questioning how you know will do my head in. You know and that's that.”
Mycroft looked pleased. “Indeed. Now about that promise?”
“Just … I'd like to leave work at work tonight,” said Greg. “We've known each other for nearly a decade and this is the first time we've ever just had a pint together. Sherlock did say he wanted this night to be the usual one spent by 'people who like each other.'”
The smile slid off Mycroft's face.
“He said what?”
Greg was laughing. “I know! I wasn't sure it was real either. I rang John straight off and he said it was on the level. I guess Sherlock had a bit of time to think in between sightings of the 'Hound' of Dartmoor, yeah?”
Mycroft still looked apprehensive, which made Lestrade somewhat nervous. He drank his pint while Mycroft took out his mobile and ran his thumb down the screen, scrolling through messages, it looked like.
Two shallow grooves appeared in his forehead and his eyes narrowed as he stopped to read something on his screen. That done, Mycroft took out his pocket watch and glanced at it, then went back to his mobile and continued to read.
Greg watched Mycroft for a moment, not entirely liking the expression on the man's face.
“Uh … is there something wrong?”
“Hmm?” Mycroft looked up, somewhat distracted. “Oh. No. I apologize, Detective Inspector. I just can't imagine what is keeping my brother. I agree to your terms, by the way. As this is a special occasion, as it were.”
“It's not terms, just a suggestion,” said Greg with a small grin. “We can loosen up a bit, you know? For example, maybe retire the 'Detective Inspector' lark for a night, Mr. Holmes?”
Mycroft smiled at him. “You have always been welcome to call me by my first name.”
“It never seemed appropriate. Might've been the waistcoat.” Greg smiled back. “Any rate, I think we can put aside the titles and formality for the night. I mean, look at you, you're not even wearing a tie!”
“Mmm, yes, I feel somewhat underdressed.” Mycroft's hand went to his open collar and he grimaced. “Well, if you will call me Mycroft, I'd be more than happy to follow suit, Gregory.”
Hearing his name said in that voice – a genteel murmur with just a touch of rasp at the last syllable – nearly sent Greg off his stool. He recovered with a slight smirk and by gripping his mug a bit tighter.
“That's better, but … Gregory? Really?” Greg raised his eyebrow. “Is that as relaxed as you get?”
“Well, this is only my first drink.”
The answer was so unexpected and delivered in such a perfectly deadpan manner that Greg could only stare at Mycroft for a few silent moments. Suddenly, the corner of Mycroft's mouth quirked upward and in the next moment the two men were laughing together, Greg nearly hunched over the bar, and Mycroft upright, his shoulders trembling under his pristine shirt.
“Bloody hell …” Greg was wheezing in an attempt to get himself together. “Now I want to know what you're like when properly pissed.”
“Oh?” Mycroft swung himself just slightly in Greg's direction. Their knees almost touched and Greg found himself pinned by a dark-blue gaze.
“Is that a challenge, Det–, er ... Gregory?”
Lestrade almost shivered. God, that voice!
“Well, if you want to see it as one ...” Greg swallowed thickly. “... Maybe?”
Mycroft gazed at him for a few moments more. “Well. In that case, it would take a bit more than somewhat watered-down lager to elicit those results. We Holmeses can hold our own.”
“Yeah?” Greg's mouth curved into a grin. “Now we're getting somewhere. The night's still young, you know, and you had a head start, but ...” He gestured toward Mycroft's half-empty mug.
“True, but … perhaps another night?” Mycroft said with a slightly regretful tone. “It might not set the best tone for a collegial atmosphere if we were to be drooling in our bitters when John and Sherlock arrive.”
Greg's face fell. He'd forgotten about John and Sherlock for a second.
“Good point. Plus, that'd just be handing blackmail material to Sherlock on a platter, yeah?”
Mycroft grinned. “That, as well. And to John, too, come to that.”
“Eh, not sure John's the type.” Greg frowned at his mobile. “Wonder where he is. Reckon I should ring to see how long he'll be?”
Mycroft thought it over, nibbling on his bottom lip. Greg tried hard to keep his eyes above the man's nose.
“Yes, that might be a good idea. This is a bit out of the way, at least when considering where the surgery is located. Perhaps he's stuck on the tube? Or his taxi driver is stuck in traffic.”
Greg nodded and tapped a button on his mobile. Holding it to his ear, he listened for a minute and then frowned, looked at the phone, put it to his ear and frowned again.
“Something wrong?” Mycroft asked mildly when Greg tried it again and apparently got the same result.
“It's going straight to his voicemail,” said Greg. “He's either got the mobile turned off or he's out of range, maybe. Strange ...”
Mycroft's eyes narrowed again. He seemed to be thinking something over.
“Yes,” he said in a low, thoughtful voice. “Very strange. Tell me, Gregory, you had mentioned that Sherlock had seemed uninterested in this Knightsbridge case at the outset?”
Greg shrugged. “Said he was bored just hearing about me talk about it.”
Mycroft's mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Which means, then, that he likely solved it while you spoke about it.”
“What?” Greg's mouth hung open. “Then what the bloody hell is he doing? Where is he?”
“An interesting question,” said Mycroft as he took out his mobile again. “But, perhaps, not the most interesting question.”
“Well …” Greg's head was reeling and he knew it wasn't because of the beer. “What the hell's the most interesting question, then?”
“For my money, Gregory, the most interesting question is, where is John?”
Greg blinked for a minute. “John? Unless he got caught up at the surgery, I'd reckon he's on his way here.”
“Hmm. Is he?” Mycroft was dialing a number. “Excuse me a moment; I must make a phone call.”
Mycroft turned away and Greg was left to gape at his back while Mycroft spoke in hushed tones to whoever was on the other end. Lestrade couldn't make heads or tails of it. What was going on? Where the bloody hell was Sherlock? And John, too?
He hated the feeling of being in the dark, and was going to say so when Mycroft turned around, but something in the tall man's eyes stopped him. Mycroft's eyes were remote and closed-off, as if he were upset but trying to keep his temper.
Greg stared at him in mild concern. “Mycroft? What is it? Is something wrong?”
The elder Holmes shook his head slightly and gave Greg a rueful smile.
“I might have spoken too soon about postponing that drinking exercise for another time. We may have need of it tonight."
"Why? What's going on? Who was it that you just rang?"
"The surgery at which John is working," said Mycroft, his eyebrows high. "The lovely receptionist informed me that Dr. Watson left nearly three hours ago."
"Three hours?" Greg's eyes went wide. "Bloody hell, and I can't raise him on the phone! He might be anywhere, lost, hurt, not able to ring anyone!"
"No, Gregory." Mycroft shook his head. "He's not lost or hurt ... and he's not just anywhere." Mycroft's voice was wry. "I know exactly where he is."
John Watson arrived to 221B Baker Street tired, smelly and sore. When he arrived to his flat and saw Sherlock with safety goggles and a blowtorch, he seriously contemplated going right back down the stairs again, but decided against it as he wasn't sure his legs would obey him. Stumping to the kitchen to put in the groceries he'd spent nearly an hour shopping for into the fridge, he came back out again, rubbing his sore neck.
“Sherlock. What a bloody day,” John groaned, sinking into his armchair. “There should be a health bulletin or something about this stomach flu. I don't know if I can take another afternoon like this one. I've told Dr. Latimer that it can't work, just two of us on like that, not when we have people doubled over in the waiting room, heaving their guts out. She's going to see what she can do, but I'm not holding out hope.”
The blowtorch snapped off. “What was that, John?”
John raised tired eyes to his flatmate. “You weren't listening to a thing I just said, were you?”
“Beyond 'Sherlock'? No.” The consulting detective looked at him. “I didn't think anything that came after that would be terribly important. Did you get the things I asked for?”
John opened his mouth and then closed it. It just wouldn't be worth it. Not tonight.
“Yes, and it took me forever. I had to go to a Sainsbury's and Tesco's. I will tell you, I was glad to get your message about tonight being off.” John slowly rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted to charge my mobile last night, but couldn't find my charger. You haven't seen it have you?”
Sherlock's face was blank. “Why would I have seen it?”
“Well, I couldn't find it and I usually put it in my nightstand drawer," said John. "I thought I'd have enough power to last through the day, but it cut out on me halfway through. Good job ringing the desk when you couldn't get me on my phone.”
“Hmmm.” Sherlock gave a quick sideways look to a small chest where a small mobile charging device was curled up innocently at the bottom, but then smoothed out his expression.
“Yes, well, I didn't think you'd appreciate trekking out to Mayfair when you didn't have to.”
“Too right.” John looked up at Sherlock once more. “What made you call it off? Mycroft have to fly over to Riyadh for tea with the Saudi royals or something?”
Sherlock hesitated just a moment. “No. I simply thought of something else I could do to thank him for his assistance in Baskerville. Something that needn't involve us – you and me, I mean.”
“Oh. Right.” John ran a tired hand over his hair. “You did tell Greg it was all off, right? I think he was really looking forward to it.”
“I'm sure Lestrade will get the message.” Sherlock's expression turned sly. “My brother will see to that.”
“Huh?” John frowned slightly, but shrugged and then sighed when Sherlock flicked the blowtorch on again and continued his experiment … which from the smell of it, seemed to involve burning large tufts of human hair. John knew better than to ask what was going on.
Gagging a bit, John headed for his room to let the sitting room clear out a little, wondering just what good deed Sherlock had decided to do for Mycroft instead.