Fic: You Know Where to Find Me
Title: “You know where to find me”
Author: Aithilin
Rating: G
Genre: general
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Spoilers: A Study in Pink
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: approx. 567
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this.
Summary: Lestrade gets desperate, but he really has no idea where Sherlock is hiding himself now.
--
You know where to find me. -SH
There was no way he could make the call. Sherlock had been pestering to be let into the case since the connection between the drugs taken had been made and publicised; and he had been getting more and more aggressive about his interest. But this stunt… Lestrade had only just managed to get away from the scolding about his renegade “pet project,” and the conference had ended hours ago. But Lestrade had been diligently hiding since then, careful to avoid anyone who looked like they might ask him a question about the case he was resolved to throw himself into until it was closed and Londoners stopped doing whatever it was that made them targets for what he was starting to think just might be a serial killer with a strange pattern. His office was the safe haven now, despite the mountain of files and reports that had long since taken over the desk- enough of the stuff to literally hide behind if he wanted to look busy and not on the verge of breaking down to call the most annoying genius in the whole of England. Even now, as he sipped the tasteless, cheap coffee supplied from the break room, he still hoped to receive some spectacular, case-breaking revelation that would let him avoid the inevitable humiliation that was giving in to Sherlock Holmes.
There just wasn’t enough to justify going to a “consultant” like Sherlock Holmes yet.
Never mind the fact that he didn’t actually know where the mad bastard was hiding himself at the moment. The last time he swung around the Montague Street flat, a relieved neighbour had told him that Sherlock had finally acknowledged the eviction notice which had been affixed to the door for the last six months. But now… Now he had no idea where Sherlock was living, though he suspected that message was meant to point him towards the morgue at St. Bart’s.
There was just too much of a mess. The case, Sherlock being Sherlock, the doubt that this killer drug was not just some accident hitting the London streets now that a fourth body had been called in, the copious amounts of cheap coffee supplied in the break room- it ate at his resolve, and built up his frustration until he just wanted this whole fiasco over with before he needed to save face with the press again. Lestrade realized that his phone was in his hand before he registered taking it out of his jacket pocket. And, he was tempted to just call the bloody madman and have it over with. Call Sherlock, stroke the bastard’s ego, and get him to work whatever it was he did to keep more people from dying.
And the station was already in a tizzy over the new call. His team had gathered and he was just on his way to get the first look. Lestrade couldn’t help the glare at the contact list as he thumbed through it, pausing over a single name while he waited for Anderson to get out of the lab and confirm he was on his way. One name; one that could break the case open with just the smallest piece of evidence. The one name he had to call.
The line rang out once before that familiar, infuriating voice answered.
“Mycroft, where the hell is your brother?”
Author: Aithilin
Rating: G
Genre: general
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Spoilers: A Study in Pink
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: approx. 567
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this.
Summary: Lestrade gets desperate, but he really has no idea where Sherlock is hiding himself now.
--
You know where to find me. -SH
There was no way he could make the call. Sherlock had been pestering to be let into the case since the connection between the drugs taken had been made and publicised; and he had been getting more and more aggressive about his interest. But this stunt… Lestrade had only just managed to get away from the scolding about his renegade “pet project,” and the conference had ended hours ago. But Lestrade had been diligently hiding since then, careful to avoid anyone who looked like they might ask him a question about the case he was resolved to throw himself into until it was closed and Londoners stopped doing whatever it was that made them targets for what he was starting to think just might be a serial killer with a strange pattern. His office was the safe haven now, despite the mountain of files and reports that had long since taken over the desk- enough of the stuff to literally hide behind if he wanted to look busy and not on the verge of breaking down to call the most annoying genius in the whole of England. Even now, as he sipped the tasteless, cheap coffee supplied from the break room, he still hoped to receive some spectacular, case-breaking revelation that would let him avoid the inevitable humiliation that was giving in to Sherlock Holmes.
There just wasn’t enough to justify going to a “consultant” like Sherlock Holmes yet.
Never mind the fact that he didn’t actually know where the mad bastard was hiding himself at the moment. The last time he swung around the Montague Street flat, a relieved neighbour had told him that Sherlock had finally acknowledged the eviction notice which had been affixed to the door for the last six months. But now… Now he had no idea where Sherlock was living, though he suspected that message was meant to point him towards the morgue at St. Bart’s.
There was just too much of a mess. The case, Sherlock being Sherlock, the doubt that this killer drug was not just some accident hitting the London streets now that a fourth body had been called in, the copious amounts of cheap coffee supplied in the break room- it ate at his resolve, and built up his frustration until he just wanted this whole fiasco over with before he needed to save face with the press again. Lestrade realized that his phone was in his hand before he registered taking it out of his jacket pocket. And, he was tempted to just call the bloody madman and have it over with. Call Sherlock, stroke the bastard’s ego, and get him to work whatever it was he did to keep more people from dying.
And the station was already in a tizzy over the new call. His team had gathered and he was just on his way to get the first look. Lestrade couldn’t help the glare at the contact list as he thumbed through it, pausing over a single name while he waited for Anderson to get out of the lab and confirm he was on his way. One name; one that could break the case open with just the smallest piece of evidence. The one name he had to call.
The line rang out once before that familiar, infuriating voice answered.
“Mycroft, where the hell is your brother?”