Chapter Text
Lestrade said it was understandable that a mistake had been made, that in the heat of the moment, at a time when emotions were running high, someone might easily overlook such a trivial factor, and the error go unremarked.
Mycroft blamed the Americans, he acknowledged his own part in the incident, but mostly he blamed the Americans.
******
Lestrade succeeded in sloping of early on Friday afternoon. It was a quiet day the end of a relatively quiet week. Lestrade wondered if Mycroft had taken time to arrange that to his advantage, if not, then whoever had arranged it had earned Lestrade’s gratitude. He had got away lightly after his performance the previous Friday, it turned out that a fracas had developed between special branch and forensics after he had left, and his own escapade had paled into insignificance. Only Sally had alluded to his heavy drinking at Bradstreet’s retirement do, and that seemed more out of concern than ridicule. No-one at the Yard would have guessed its life changing consequences.
From Mycroft there had been text messages and a couple of late-night phone calls, but as they had known from the outset, they were both busy men, with demanding jobs. True to his word, Mycroft had that morning sent a text with the address of a restaurant not far from Embankment station, with a reservation for eight o’clock that evening.
Lestrade had shopped in his lunch break for some new togs, and as a result he was dressed, if not to kill, at least to disarm, when he set off to meet Mycroft for their ‘first date’.
The restaurant was exclusive, intimate, the food excellent, the wine and the conversation flowed. Certain topics were off limits, much of their respective jobs, Greg’s drunken shenanigans, Sherlock, but they seemed to find plenty to talk about. Mycroft paid for the meal and demurred at Greg’s offer to ‘go Dutch’.
“Next time.”
Mycroft took out his watch. “I wonder if I might interest you in a postprandial stroll?”
Greg, who also was not quite ready for the evening to end, took the suggestion for what it was and accepted happily.
“Good, then I suggest we take a turn about the Embankment Gardens and I’ll have Sidney meet us at the other side.”
It was a mild night, and the walk pleasant. As befits a city that never sleeps, the streets were busy. The Playhouse was disgorging the evening’s audience, while the queue to get into Heaven snaked round the corner of Villiers Street. Lestrade wondered what his younger self would have made of him and Mycroft, two middle aged men at the start of something new. He began to describe his early forays into the London scene, nearly thirty years ago when he had just moved up from the country. Then he noticed Mycroft glance at his watch for a second time, the difficulty with a fob watch was it was impossible to do this discreetly.
“Am I boring you?” Greg asked, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice.
Mycroft replied instantly. “No, my dear, not at all, it is merely… you will recall last Saturday morning, a certain text message.”
Greg nodded.
“I set the time of arrival for 10.30p.m. on the following Friday, 12th May, that is, this evening. Dr Watson is visiting with Harry; unfortunately, she is unwell again. Sherlock is minding Rosie so at home and on his best behaviour. An ideal time for such a text to arrive.”
Lestrade stopped walking abruptly and spun on his heel, eyes scanning the sky.
Startled, Mycroft asked “What are you doing?”
“Baker Street is roughly over there.” Greg pointed in a northernly direction. “I don’t want to miss the fireworks.”
Mycroft followed Lestrade’s line of vision, “or the controlled explosion!”
They both laughed at this, then Mycroft asked, “Night cap?”
Greg smiled and said, “Yes please.”
******
As it turned out there was no explosion, controlled or otherwise. Lestrade, in what seemed like retribution for the previous quiet week was suddenly ludicrously busy with a suspected kidnapping gone wrong and all thoughts of the text message vanished from his mind. When Sherlock finally deigned to take a look, Lestrade found him Johnless and subdued.
The case was difficult and while ultimately it came to a satisfactory conclusion, it succeeded, as nothing else had, in wiping the smile from Lestrade’s face. Sherlock seemed to be the only person who was disinterested in the Inspector’s underlying good mood, perhaps because he was the only person who could be certain of the cause. He never mentioned it, although he was quite happy to take his share of the doughnuts when the Met finally apprehended the suspect.
“No John?” Lestrade commented between mouthfuls.
“No minder.” Sherlock answered moodily, for all like a five-year-old who’s favourite blankie was in the wash.
“Everything all right between you?” Lestrade ventured to ask.
“Yes,” Sherlock snapped. “Any reason why it shouldn’t be?”
Sherlock had either seen the text for the prank it was, or had chosen to ignore it, or maybe he had even failed to understand it. Either way the joke had fallen flat, and that, as Lestrade reported to Mycroft, was that.