Title: Mycroft Holmes and the case of the missing Detective Inspector part 3
Author: Chef_Hector
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1.027
Warning: Mentions of violence and torture. M/M Relationships
Summary: Lestrade is kidnapped and Mycroft has to get him back.
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Note: I must give complete and utter thanks to
blooms84,lucybun,and matilda36 for their help and constant support of this little fic.
Name: Alexander Kristopolis Age 33. Born in London from ... political refugees from Northern Cypros. Divorced. One child, son named Bryan, age 16. Ex-wife named Katie, recently re-married to business man Jared Meilson. Working as a bartender in Brixton.
“Tea, I need some tea,” Sherlock stated more than asked.
His grandfather disappeared in the wake of Turkish invasion. Strong family ties. His father disappointed when he couldn't get the files. Must ask Mycroft about content of the files. This is boring... we know who's the culprit, we just need to find where he keeps him. Maybe Brixton? No he hasn't got known links to Jamaicans. He needs protection. Probably help. But where?
A tea cup and a box of his nicotine patches appeared by his elbow. Sherlock looked up and gave John a small smile of appreciation. He hadn’t asked for his patches yet, but John had anticipated that he would and came prepared. John is always so calm under pressure. John rubbed the back of his neck and blushed a little at Sherlock’s smile, giving a small one of his own. It was something Sherlock found most endearing.
The shrill ring of Mycroft’s phone caused everyone to still. Mycroft looked down and saw that the call was coming from Gregory’s cell phone. After putting the phone of speaker he pressed the button to answer it, face hard set.
“I hope you understand the consequences this is going to bring. If it takes the rest of my life I will make sure you pay for this.”
“Mycroft?”
Sherlock watched as Mycroft’s face changed at the sound of Lestrade’s voice. There was hope, and a look that on the face of any other man would be called worry. But Mycroft had trained himself never to allow his demeanor to betray worry—or fear.
“Gregory…”
“Mycroft, don’t give them what they want. Don’t you even think about it. I’m not worth it.”
Sherlock watched as Mycroft closed his eyes and clench his fists. Sherlock isn’t quite sure what he is feeling—he really hasn’t felt sympathy or empathy for his brother before. But now he has John in his life and if something was to happen to him…
“I will find you, I promise Gregory.”
“I know My. I have faith in you, and your brother.”
There was some commotion on the other end of the phone and Sherlock knew that they were taking the phone away from Lestrade, and the Lestrade wasn’t exactly willing to let it go.
“Now that I have your attention Holmes, I am going to tell you what I want.”
Mycroft’s face became hard again, and Sherlock was actually proud of his brother. Not that he would ever tell Mycroft that.
“And what is it that you want?”
“I want a body to bring my mother peace.”
The phone call ended abruptly and in an uncharacteristic moment Mycroft picked up the cell phone and hurled it at the wall. Sherlock couldn’t stop the slight smile on his face. Maybe Lestrade was having more of an influence on Mycroft than first thought.
John left the room to find Anthea, muttering something under his breath about getting Mycroft another phone. Sherlock was certain that John just needed to get out of the room for a bit. When he walked out of the room his limp was starting to come back. That was something they would have to remedy as soon as Lestrade was found. Sherlock turned his attention back to the file to find out more information about the driver. It had to be in here. What was he missing?
John had returned with Anthea, who walked over to Mycroft and handed him a cell phone that looked exactly like the one that was thrown against the wall. Sherlock watched the two of them interact for a few moments. There was a bit of dried mascara at the corner of her right eye. Her eyes seemed puffy, as if she had been crying, and then tried to press away the tears with a towel.
“What do you know Anthea?”
She tensed at Sherlock’s question. She turned to face him and he saw that her eyes were bloodshot. So she had been crying.
“You have been crying judging from your eyes and the dried mascara at the corner of your eye. As long as I have known you I have seen you cry one time and that was when your parents died and you were unable to make the funeral.”
“Sherlock…”
“If you are implying that I had something to do with this…”
“I’m not implying it. I’m saying it.”
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock turned and saw John standing behind him, looking pretty pissed off.
“John..”
“Sit down, Sherlock.”
“John.”
“Sit down!”
Much to everyone’s surprise, most of all his own, Sherlock sat back down. John turned his attention to Anthea, who had tears again starting to form in her eyes from Sherlock’s accusation. John smiled kindly at her and gently led her to a chair as far from Sherlock as he could get. Once she was settled, John made her a cup of tea to help calm her down. He kneeled down in front of her and talked to her in a hushed voice.
“Anthea…what is it?”
Sherlock sat back, amazed at John. John always calls him brilliant, but John is a man of many talents including the way he can so easily talk to people, a talent Sherlock knows he lacks. John can get people to open up to him when Sherlock cannot. Anthea is a prime example of that. She never would have talked to Sherlock, but now she was telling John about how she recommended the driver for the position because he was an old friend and had a baby on the way. She told John about how the man would always bring her pastries in the morning from a shop owned by family friends and just how guilty she felt because this was all her fault.
“Pastries…of course!”
Sherlock went back over to the desk and rummaged through the file. Where was the map of . . . Ah, there it is.
“Green Lane.”
Next Part
Author: Chef_Hector
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1.027
Warning: Mentions of violence and torture. M/M Relationships
Summary: Lestrade is kidnapped and Mycroft has to get him back.
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Note: I must give complete and utter thanks to
blooms84,lucybun,and matilda36 for their help and constant support of this little fic.Name: Alexander Kristopolis Age 33. Born in London from ... political refugees from Northern Cypros. Divorced. One child, son named Bryan, age 16. Ex-wife named Katie, recently re-married to business man Jared Meilson. Working as a bartender in Brixton.
“Tea, I need some tea,” Sherlock stated more than asked.
His grandfather disappeared in the wake of Turkish invasion. Strong family ties. His father disappointed when he couldn't get the files. Must ask Mycroft about content of the files. This is boring... we know who's the culprit, we just need to find where he keeps him. Maybe Brixton? No he hasn't got known links to Jamaicans. He needs protection. Probably help. But where?
A tea cup and a box of his nicotine patches appeared by his elbow. Sherlock looked up and gave John a small smile of appreciation. He hadn’t asked for his patches yet, but John had anticipated that he would and came prepared. John is always so calm under pressure. John rubbed the back of his neck and blushed a little at Sherlock’s smile, giving a small one of his own. It was something Sherlock found most endearing.
The shrill ring of Mycroft’s phone caused everyone to still. Mycroft looked down and saw that the call was coming from Gregory’s cell phone. After putting the phone of speaker he pressed the button to answer it, face hard set.
“I hope you understand the consequences this is going to bring. If it takes the rest of my life I will make sure you pay for this.”
“Mycroft?”
Sherlock watched as Mycroft’s face changed at the sound of Lestrade’s voice. There was hope, and a look that on the face of any other man would be called worry. But Mycroft had trained himself never to allow his demeanor to betray worry—or fear.
“Gregory…”
“Mycroft, don’t give them what they want. Don’t you even think about it. I’m not worth it.”
Sherlock watched as Mycroft closed his eyes and clench his fists. Sherlock isn’t quite sure what he is feeling—he really hasn’t felt sympathy or empathy for his brother before. But now he has John in his life and if something was to happen to him…
“I will find you, I promise Gregory.”
“I know My. I have faith in you, and your brother.”
There was some commotion on the other end of the phone and Sherlock knew that they were taking the phone away from Lestrade, and the Lestrade wasn’t exactly willing to let it go.
“Now that I have your attention Holmes, I am going to tell you what I want.”
Mycroft’s face became hard again, and Sherlock was actually proud of his brother. Not that he would ever tell Mycroft that.
“And what is it that you want?”
“I want a body to bring my mother peace.”
The phone call ended abruptly and in an uncharacteristic moment Mycroft picked up the cell phone and hurled it at the wall. Sherlock couldn’t stop the slight smile on his face. Maybe Lestrade was having more of an influence on Mycroft than first thought.
John left the room to find Anthea, muttering something under his breath about getting Mycroft another phone. Sherlock was certain that John just needed to get out of the room for a bit. When he walked out of the room his limp was starting to come back. That was something they would have to remedy as soon as Lestrade was found. Sherlock turned his attention back to the file to find out more information about the driver. It had to be in here. What was he missing?
John had returned with Anthea, who walked over to Mycroft and handed him a cell phone that looked exactly like the one that was thrown against the wall. Sherlock watched the two of them interact for a few moments. There was a bit of dried mascara at the corner of her right eye. Her eyes seemed puffy, as if she had been crying, and then tried to press away the tears with a towel.
“What do you know Anthea?”
She tensed at Sherlock’s question. She turned to face him and he saw that her eyes were bloodshot. So she had been crying.
“You have been crying judging from your eyes and the dried mascara at the corner of your eye. As long as I have known you I have seen you cry one time and that was when your parents died and you were unable to make the funeral.”
“Sherlock…”
“If you are implying that I had something to do with this…”
“I’m not implying it. I’m saying it.”
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock turned and saw John standing behind him, looking pretty pissed off.
“John..”
“Sit down, Sherlock.”
“John.”
“Sit down!”
Much to everyone’s surprise, most of all his own, Sherlock sat back down. John turned his attention to Anthea, who had tears again starting to form in her eyes from Sherlock’s accusation. John smiled kindly at her and gently led her to a chair as far from Sherlock as he could get. Once she was settled, John made her a cup of tea to help calm her down. He kneeled down in front of her and talked to her in a hushed voice.
“Anthea…what is it?”
Sherlock sat back, amazed at John. John always calls him brilliant, but John is a man of many talents including the way he can so easily talk to people, a talent Sherlock knows he lacks. John can get people to open up to him when Sherlock cannot. Anthea is a prime example of that. She never would have talked to Sherlock, but now she was telling John about how she recommended the driver for the position because he was an old friend and had a baby on the way. She told John about how the man would always bring her pastries in the morning from a shop owned by family friends and just how guilty she felt because this was all her fault.
“Pastries…of course!”
Sherlock went back over to the desk and rummaged through the file. Where was the map of . . . Ah, there it is.
“Green Lane.”
Next Part