Brotherly Love 4/5
Title: Brotherly Love Chapter 4
Author: dweo
Words: 3548
Rating: Teen
Characters: Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock, Not!Anthea, John, Moriarty
Pairings: Lestrade/Mycroft
Warnings this chapter: None
Beta: The Lovely grassle
Summary: When people say that the day he met Sherlock Holmes had to have been the most incredible day of his life, he agrees. But what Lestrade never tells them is that it had very little to do with Sherlock.
AN: Written for sherlockbigbang
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
It had become a habit; once a month they would meet, have dinner, talk about nonsense, end with a short status report on Sherlock, and if Lestrade was lucky, a drink and a bit more on his sofa. Lestrade wondered if he should get better paid for babysitting the youngest Holmes brother, but truthfully he rather enjoyed the dinners and what followed.
And tonight especially. After the series of bombings, he frankly deserved a night out. No doubt Sherlock would come back tomorrow, and the world would turn around Sherlock again. But tonight it was all about the delicious Italian food in front of him.
They talked about books, films, their deceased partners and about still missing them. They talked about rugby (both), football (Lestrade) and cricket (Mycroft). It was comfortable, just two old friends (lovers?) meeting over dinner. In an expensive restaurant, a very expensive restaurant, without prices on the menu, and with actual bodyguards cluttering up the place.
"When you said Italian, I was thinking pizza," Lestrade said, enjoying his perfectly cooked steak.
"Of course." Mycroft smirked his incredible smirk that did very wrong things to Lestrade's insides.
Lestrade smirked back, and for a fleeting moment there was something the little voice in the back of his mind said was lust. The rational part of his mind told him to shut up; this wasn't the right place or time for that. So he ignored it.
"I took the liberty of ordering some of their fabulous tiramisu for us. It's considered some of the best in the world." Lestrade decided Mycroft was right, as usual, even if he was an assuming bastard.
After dinner, two cups of espresso arrived, and so did the end of their time. Now it was Sherlock's time again, and for a second Lestrade hated him for it.
"How's my brother doing?" Mycroft asked, before sipping his espresso.
"He’s had us running around for days, chasing a serial bomber."
"Has he? Interesting."
Lestrade spilled everything that had happened over the last few days, glad to finally talk to somebody who wasn't Sherlock, Donovan, or his superiors. When he was finished, Mycroft looked at him, his fingers together before his mouth in a perfect imitation of his brother.
"You talked about five pips, but there have been only four bombs."
"I know,' Lestrade said. "But according to Sherlock there hasn't been a new one."
"Would he tell you?" Mycroft asked. Lestrade felt the bottom drop from his stomach.
"He didn't."
"I'm afraid he probably did." At those words Mycroft made a small movement with his right hand, and his PA materialised instantly, startling Lestrade for a moment
"I saw him this afternoon on a case he was working for me. I thought he was acting too willingly. Khadija, his website please if you could," Mycroft said to his PA. Her fingers flew over the keys of a small netbook for a few seconds.
"Sir." She handed Mycroft the device, and Mycroft sighed before sliding it to Lestrade.
Lestrade immediately recognised the website, and to his annoyance, he saw there was a new comment he hadn't seen before.
Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.
If he got his hands on Sherlock, he was going to kill him. One look at Mycroft's face told Lestrade Mycroft too had rather murderous thoughts about his brother at the moment. He pulled out his phone and pushed one button. Apparently he had Sherlock on Speed Dial, Lestrade thought with a smirk.
"He isn't answering. You try calling him, and I'll see if John's with him," Mycroft said as he dialled again.
Sherlock didn't answer Lestrade either. And when Lestrade looked at Mycroft, he saw a very worried look on the man's face.
"John's phone is switched off. That's worrying."
"Can you trace their phones?"
"Already done, sir," Khadija replied, "Sherlock's travelling, and Doctor Watson's phone is…" She stopped as she looked at the small screen, an eyebrow raised.
"Sir, you’d better take a look at this." She turned the netbook to Mycroft and Lestrade, and to their surprise John's phone wasn't with Sherlock and not in Baker Street either, but instead stationary in a small alleyway.
"Find out where they went. Now."
They sat in silence as Khadija was busy talking on her phone and tapping away on the netbook.
"John left Baker Street alone, a few minutes before Sherlock put that message on his website," she said after a few minutes. "He stayed in sight of the CCTV until he hit a blind spot, here." She pointed to the small map on the screen. "Either he knew there was a blind spot there and stepped in a car, or…"
"Or somebody took him. Damn,'" Mycroft said. Lestrade was fascinated. Mycroft suddenly appeared angry, annoyed and oh so human.
"That would explain why his phone is off," Lestrade said as a dark thought entered his mind, "The bomber used hostages before. He took John, didn't he?"
"Find out where that pool is and get extraction team four ready," Mycroft said to Khadija.
"Yes, sir." She turned around and started to speak in her phone softly.
"I have to go," Mycroft said, "I'll send a car for you if you want to go home."
"Oh no, I'm not going to stand by while your brother gets himself killed."
"Thank you," Mycroft said. "I think we need to continue this in the car; we seem to be drawing some unwanted attention." At those words Lestrade suddenly realised they were still in the restaurant, and all eyes were aimed at their table.
They quickly left, without paying, Lestrade noticed, and sat down in the car in silence. Five minutes later Khadija sat down beside them.
"Extraction team is ready, but I haven't located the pool yet. And I think Sherlock's phone is currently at the bottom of the Thames."
"He realised I would be tracing him," Mycroft said. "The idiot."
"Mycroft, I might know which pool he meant." Mycroft and Khadija whirled around to him, looking at him in surprise.
"How?" Mycroft said.
"What do you know about Carl Powers?" Lestrade asked. "He drowned, didn't he?"
"Of course," Mycroft said and told Khadija an address before sitting down deep in the seat.
"It's 11:45, the pool is twenty minutes away, and the extraction team will not be there for at least another thirty minutes. We'll have to go in ourselves.'"
"What?" Lestrade said. "Are you crazy? He probably covered the place with bombs, snipers..."
"Yes, but that shouldn't be a problem. My chauffeur and bodyguard are ex-SAS officers, and Khadija could kill a fly a mile away with one shot and could incapacitate you with one finger, and you are a trained police officer with an excellent record on the shooting range."
"And you?" Lestrade said, angry at the foolhardy idea Mycroft had.
"I…know how to defend myself." At those words he pressed his hand to the seat in front of him, and a small hatch opened. Mycroft pulled two handguns from a compartment in the car and handed them to Lestrade. He also pulled out something that looked like a bulletproof vest.
"Put this on."
"What about you?" Lestrade asked as he watched Mycroft settle back into the seat.
"I'm already wearing mine," he replied.
"How?" Lestrade looked Mycroft over and didn't see the bulkiness he expected from a bulletproof vest.
"After the fifth assassination attempt, I decided wearing protection at all times would be prudent, and I wasn't going to be uncomfortable, so my clothes are made from a special bullet and knife resistant material. Not available for public use, yet."
Lestrade sighed. Apparently it wasn't just Sherlock who had a death wish, and Lestrade wasn't even going to ask about assassination attempts.
"Sir, I’ve brought up the floor plan of the pool." Khadija handed Mycroft her netbook, and he looked at it for some time.
"They'll probably meet near the pool itself, knowing Sherlock and his taste for the melodramatic. So Moriarty will probably put snipers here, and here. Also I would expect them here all around the stands." At those words Mycroft pointed to several points on the blueprints.
"We'll enter here. It will give us a view of the whole stands and most of the pool area." Mycroft sounded too practiced at this.
"How do you know all this?” Lestrade finally asked.
"I wasn't always a bureaucrat. I started out in a slightly more hands-on role," Mycroft replied with a smile.
"Sir," Khadija said sharply.
"Ah yes, I shouldn't be telling you this. Let’s just say this isn't the first time I’ve planned a retrieval mission."
They reached the pool at a few minutes past twelve. The pool was dark, and it was clear Sherlock was either already inside or wouldn't be coming.
Lestrade dropped his jacket in the car and adjusted the bulletproof vest. Mycroft's bodyguard and chauffeur checked their guns, and Khadija's hands looked surprisingly empty without her BlackBerry.
Mycroft, on the other hand, looked like he always did, like he was going for a casual stroll, his umbrella by his side
"Mycroft, do you ever leave that umbrella behind?" Lestrade asked as Mycroft walked calmly swinging his umbrella.
"No," Mycroft replied, and Khadija let out a soft laugh.
The pool was empty, no guards or sentries, and they reached the stands without any resistance. Mycroft's sharp eyes were the first to notice the snipers.
"There, there and there, and there are five more on the other side," he whispered to Lestrade. He signalled his two men to move around to the others. Khadija joined Lestrade as he moved to the one closest to them and the one between them and the view of the pool.
Khadija was the first to reach the sniper, and with one move she pinched a nerve in his shoulder, and the man went down without a sound. They moved to the edge of the stand and looked down on the pool area. There were three people besides the pool. Sherlock, who was aiming a gun at a stranger. Lestrade didn't want to know where Sherlock had got himself a gun. The stranger was probably the bomber, Moriarty. But it was John who made him gasp softly.
John was covered in large packages connected with wires. John was indeed the fifth hostage.
"You go on. Take out the rest. I'll keep my eye on them." Mycroft aimed his gun at Moriarty. Lestrade and Khadija moved on silently, taking out the snipers they encountered one by one.
Then suddenly Moriarty turned around and walked away. Sherlock dropped the gun and was on John in a second. He removed the vest and slid it away before picking up his gun again and leaving the pool area. John had sat down with his back to the stalls.
"What just happened?" Lestrade whispered to Khadija.
"I don't know, but I doubt it's over," she said gesturing to the snipers who were still standing at the ready. About half of them were still standing. "We need to go on."
Sherlock returned just as Lestrade used his gun to hit another sniper on the back of his head.
The scene that unfolded in front of them made Lestrade's heart sing. For the first time since Lestrade had known Sherlock, he saw true emotion in the man's words and actions. And if he was honest, the world seemed to be a bit brighter. Although he would have a stern conversation with Sherlock about gun safety, because the idiot would probably blow his brains out otherwise. Mycroft suddenly appeared at Lestrade's side, looking too happy for the situation.
They moved on, and just as they reached another of the snipers, they saw him move his hand to his ear listening intently. And he aimed his gun at Sherlock again. Khadija was on the man before Lestrade could assess what was going on. And he was down, his laser dot still aimed at John.
"We need to take out the rest now," Mycroft said, "because Sherlock is about to do something stupid." Just as Lestrade, Khadija and Mycroft made a move for the last two snipers, Sherlock pulled the trigger. In an instant Lestrade and Khadija pulled Mycroft down, shielding him from the blast.
The blast left Lestrade's ears ringing, and it took him a few seconds to realise the building hadn't collapsed around his ears. Mycroft pushed Lestrade away and ran to the edge of the stands.
Down below there was a bit more damage. The blast had knocked down some of the stalls, but that wasn't what drew their attention. On the floor were three figures. Moriarty had been thrown back and started to move again, but it was John and Sherlock Lestrade was looking at. John was lying on top of Sherlock, and it was clear he had pushed Sherlock down, but it was the red stain slowly forming between them that worried Lestrade. At least one of them had been hit. Then to his relief he saw Sherlock's hand move.
"He's shot," Lestrade said as he rushed to the stairs. Mycroft and Khadija were on his heels, and they reached the two men together. Khadija rushed passed them and placed her gun at Moriarty's head. Stopping the man from escaping.
Lestrade and Mycroft carefully turned John around away from Sherlock. Mycroft moved over to Sherlock immediately, but there was a worrying amount of blood on John's face, and for a moment Lestrade was afraid it was too late for the good doctor. Then he heard a faint groan coming from him, and Lestrade was beside him looking over the head wound. The bullet had dragged a stripe across John's left temple. The head wound bled badly, but wasn't deadly.
"How's Sherlock?" he asked as he started to look John over further.
"Hit in the shoulder. I suspect the bullet went via John's head before it hit Sherlock."
"John just has a head wound." Lestrade sighed. He looked at Mycroft who had removed his coat and pushed it down on Sherlock's shoulder hard.
"He's losing a lot of blood." At those words the pool was suddenly bathed in light, and several guns were aimed at them.
"Stand down," Khadija said in a commanding tone. She immediately started to order people to clean up the snipers. Then one of the men pushed Lestrade away from John and started to bandage up his head. Another tried to move Mycroft away, but Mycroft only had eyes for Sherlock.
"Sir?" the man asked tentatively, "if you let me…"
"Mycroft," Lestrade said, and took Mycroft's hands and moved him away gently.
They both looked as the man worked on Sherlock. It wasn't until he heard Donovan's voice arguing with Mycroft's men that he realised the emergency services had arrived.
The rest went by as in a dream. Mycroft allowed them to load Sherlock and John into ambulances, and the rest of the team was told to stand down and allow the police on the scene.
Ten minutes later Lestrade left the building, trusting the officers on the scene could handle it all. He knew Donovan would put up a good fight against Mycroft's men if they dared to take over the crime scene completely. He personally had two injured man to take care of.
He walked around the corner towards the black car and stopped dead in his tracks. There in front of him was the last of the snipers, the one they apparently missed. And he was holding a gun.
Lestrade stared at the red dot on his chest. And sighed. He knew that even with a bullet proof vest he wouldn't survive getting shot at this range.
"Would you mind lowering that gun?" Mycroft's voice came from besides the man, and even in this situation Mycroft sounded unbearably posh. The red dot didn't move.
"Fine; I did warn you." And suddenly, out of nowhere, a thin steel blade was pushed against the man’s chin.
The man dropped his gun in surprise as he looked down. The sight was rather ridiculous. A posh, well-dressed man pushing a sword against your chin would stun even the most professional assassin. Mycroft's men used the man's surprise and pushed the sniper to the ground, incapacitating him efficiently.
"Is that…?" Lestrade asked softly, staring at the blade incredulously.
"What do you think, inspector?"
"That's the most ridiculous, cheesy thing I have ever seen."
"I told you I could take care of myself."
"But that's a sword, a sword in your umbrella. Real life doesn't work that way," Lestrade protested.
"Blame Khadija. That woman watches too much TV, and when she discovered I was a world class fencer, she gave it to me. Never had cause to use it though." At those words Mycroft sheathed the sword again and walked away, swinging the thing.
"Are you coming, Gabriel? I have to escort my brother to the hospital again." With a sigh, Lestrade ran after the man.
***
The news that Moriarty had disappeared somewhere between the pool and the police station came just as they were told Sherlock and John would both make a full recovery. Mycroft seemed rather uninterested in the fact that the criminal responsible for Sherlock's situation was no longer in police hands. All he had eyes for was Sherlock.
If Lestrade was honest, he knew the fact that Mycroft was unconcerned should make him worry, and he should probably drag Mycroft into his office to have a talk. But as always, he didn't.
Lestrade spent the next hour shouting orders into his phone, making sure his men were okay, and making sure John Watson was placed next to Sherlock to make all their lives easier. It was only after he found himself a cup of coffee and some determination, he made a decision.
"Mycroft, can I have a word?" Lestrade asked softly.
"Of course." Mycroft let go of Sherlock's hand and joined Lestrade at the window.
"Should I be worried about Moriarty escaping?" Mycroft didn't react, just stared out of the window for a long time.
"I could have stopped him," Mycroft suddenly said. "I've been aware of him for some time, but politics made me hesitant to act."
"You mean you could've stopped this? All of this, the bombings, the deaths?" Lestrade felt anger. He might be a bent cop, but innocent people had died, and Mycroft had stood by watching.
"Yes.' Mycroft's answer was blunt. "But like I said, there's a bigger picture, and if I had removed him earlier, more lives would have been lost."
"But you're going to act now?"
"He hurt Sherlock, so I can't ignore him any longer. Although I can't imagine Sherlock being happy about it, but we'll add that to list of reasons why he hates me." The last words were said sadly.
"Can I expect a body shortly?" Lestrade said, his voice controlled, anger coiled in his stomach.
"Perhaps. Dead bodies always send such an interesting message, don't they?" At those words Mycroft sat down at Sherlock's side again, ignoring Lestrade. Lestrade kept his eyes on the brothers. Still fuming, still debating whether it was worth his career to drag Mycroft back to the station and throw him in a cell for the night. In the end he sighed and sat down next to Mycroft and Sherlock. Looking at the pale figure, not certain how he felt about the man beside him. Then he felt a soft pressure on his knee. He gently placed his hand on Mycroft's and gave a small squeeze. Lestrade knew things weren't good, and they might never be, but he took what he could get for now.
They sat in silence for a long time until a soft cough woke them out of their thoughts. Khadija was standing behind them looking all too collected and calm.
"Yes," Mycroft sighed. He removed his hand and stood up stiffly. He started to walk away, but changed his minded halfway through and placed his hand on Lestrade's shoulder.
"Go home, Gabriel. You're no use to him exhausted." Lestrade stood up, looking up at Mycroft.
"Join me?" he asked against his better judgement
"I'm sorry, Gabriel, I can't, not today." Mycroft truly looked apologetic as he threw one last look at Sherlock. Lestrade felt himself tremble; whether it was with anger, disappointment or sheer exhaustion he didn't know, but he knew that if he didn't walk away from Mycroft now, he would say things that would probably get him killed. Or at least in big trouble.
He turned and walked away. He knew Mycroft would be back, they would have their dinners again, their talks, they would still end up in Lestrade's bed; but Lestrade knew Mycroft would always be Sherlock's.
***
Lestrade closed yet another case, the tenth, that day. After everything that had happened the last week, this felt like yet another victory. He wondered how many more cases they could close after today. He knew the world had become just a bit safer. He knew he had just one other thing to do. And for once, he was going to enjoy it. He picked up the little black book and wrote:
James Moriarty
Criminal mastermind
Shot to the back of the head
Executed
Chapter 5
Author: dweo
Words: 3548
Rating: Teen
Characters: Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock, Not!Anthea, John, Moriarty
Pairings: Lestrade/Mycroft
Warnings this chapter: None
Beta: The Lovely grassle
Summary: When people say that the day he met Sherlock Holmes had to have been the most incredible day of his life, he agrees. But what Lestrade never tells them is that it had very little to do with Sherlock.
AN: Written for sherlockbigbang
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
It had become a habit; once a month they would meet, have dinner, talk about nonsense, end with a short status report on Sherlock, and if Lestrade was lucky, a drink and a bit more on his sofa. Lestrade wondered if he should get better paid for babysitting the youngest Holmes brother, but truthfully he rather enjoyed the dinners and what followed.
And tonight especially. After the series of bombings, he frankly deserved a night out. No doubt Sherlock would come back tomorrow, and the world would turn around Sherlock again. But tonight it was all about the delicious Italian food in front of him.
They talked about books, films, their deceased partners and about still missing them. They talked about rugby (both), football (Lestrade) and cricket (Mycroft). It was comfortable, just two old friends (lovers?) meeting over dinner. In an expensive restaurant, a very expensive restaurant, without prices on the menu, and with actual bodyguards cluttering up the place.
"When you said Italian, I was thinking pizza," Lestrade said, enjoying his perfectly cooked steak.
"Of course." Mycroft smirked his incredible smirk that did very wrong things to Lestrade's insides.
Lestrade smirked back, and for a fleeting moment there was something the little voice in the back of his mind said was lust. The rational part of his mind told him to shut up; this wasn't the right place or time for that. So he ignored it.
"I took the liberty of ordering some of their fabulous tiramisu for us. It's considered some of the best in the world." Lestrade decided Mycroft was right, as usual, even if he was an assuming bastard.
After dinner, two cups of espresso arrived, and so did the end of their time. Now it was Sherlock's time again, and for a second Lestrade hated him for it.
"How's my brother doing?" Mycroft asked, before sipping his espresso.
"He’s had us running around for days, chasing a serial bomber."
"Has he? Interesting."
Lestrade spilled everything that had happened over the last few days, glad to finally talk to somebody who wasn't Sherlock, Donovan, or his superiors. When he was finished, Mycroft looked at him, his fingers together before his mouth in a perfect imitation of his brother.
"You talked about five pips, but there have been only four bombs."
"I know,' Lestrade said. "But according to Sherlock there hasn't been a new one."
"Would he tell you?" Mycroft asked. Lestrade felt the bottom drop from his stomach.
"He didn't."
"I'm afraid he probably did." At those words Mycroft made a small movement with his right hand, and his PA materialised instantly, startling Lestrade for a moment
"I saw him this afternoon on a case he was working for me. I thought he was acting too willingly. Khadija, his website please if you could," Mycroft said to his PA. Her fingers flew over the keys of a small netbook for a few seconds.
"Sir." She handed Mycroft the device, and Mycroft sighed before sliding it to Lestrade.
Lestrade immediately recognised the website, and to his annoyance, he saw there was a new comment he hadn't seen before.
Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.
If he got his hands on Sherlock, he was going to kill him. One look at Mycroft's face told Lestrade Mycroft too had rather murderous thoughts about his brother at the moment. He pulled out his phone and pushed one button. Apparently he had Sherlock on Speed Dial, Lestrade thought with a smirk.
"He isn't answering. You try calling him, and I'll see if John's with him," Mycroft said as he dialled again.
Sherlock didn't answer Lestrade either. And when Lestrade looked at Mycroft, he saw a very worried look on the man's face.
"John's phone is switched off. That's worrying."
"Can you trace their phones?"
"Already done, sir," Khadija replied, "Sherlock's travelling, and Doctor Watson's phone is…" She stopped as she looked at the small screen, an eyebrow raised.
"Sir, you’d better take a look at this." She turned the netbook to Mycroft and Lestrade, and to their surprise John's phone wasn't with Sherlock and not in Baker Street either, but instead stationary in a small alleyway.
"Find out where they went. Now."
They sat in silence as Khadija was busy talking on her phone and tapping away on the netbook.
"John left Baker Street alone, a few minutes before Sherlock put that message on his website," she said after a few minutes. "He stayed in sight of the CCTV until he hit a blind spot, here." She pointed to the small map on the screen. "Either he knew there was a blind spot there and stepped in a car, or…"
"Or somebody took him. Damn,'" Mycroft said. Lestrade was fascinated. Mycroft suddenly appeared angry, annoyed and oh so human.
"That would explain why his phone is off," Lestrade said as a dark thought entered his mind, "The bomber used hostages before. He took John, didn't he?"
"Find out where that pool is and get extraction team four ready," Mycroft said to Khadija.
"Yes, sir." She turned around and started to speak in her phone softly.
"I have to go," Mycroft said, "I'll send a car for you if you want to go home."
"Oh no, I'm not going to stand by while your brother gets himself killed."
"Thank you," Mycroft said. "I think we need to continue this in the car; we seem to be drawing some unwanted attention." At those words Lestrade suddenly realised they were still in the restaurant, and all eyes were aimed at their table.
They quickly left, without paying, Lestrade noticed, and sat down in the car in silence. Five minutes later Khadija sat down beside them.
"Extraction team is ready, but I haven't located the pool yet. And I think Sherlock's phone is currently at the bottom of the Thames."
"He realised I would be tracing him," Mycroft said. "The idiot."
"Mycroft, I might know which pool he meant." Mycroft and Khadija whirled around to him, looking at him in surprise.
"How?" Mycroft said.
"What do you know about Carl Powers?" Lestrade asked. "He drowned, didn't he?"
"Of course," Mycroft said and told Khadija an address before sitting down deep in the seat.
"It's 11:45, the pool is twenty minutes away, and the extraction team will not be there for at least another thirty minutes. We'll have to go in ourselves.'"
"What?" Lestrade said. "Are you crazy? He probably covered the place with bombs, snipers..."
"Yes, but that shouldn't be a problem. My chauffeur and bodyguard are ex-SAS officers, and Khadija could kill a fly a mile away with one shot and could incapacitate you with one finger, and you are a trained police officer with an excellent record on the shooting range."
"And you?" Lestrade said, angry at the foolhardy idea Mycroft had.
"I…know how to defend myself." At those words he pressed his hand to the seat in front of him, and a small hatch opened. Mycroft pulled two handguns from a compartment in the car and handed them to Lestrade. He also pulled out something that looked like a bulletproof vest.
"Put this on."
"What about you?" Lestrade asked as he watched Mycroft settle back into the seat.
"I'm already wearing mine," he replied.
"How?" Lestrade looked Mycroft over and didn't see the bulkiness he expected from a bulletproof vest.
"After the fifth assassination attempt, I decided wearing protection at all times would be prudent, and I wasn't going to be uncomfortable, so my clothes are made from a special bullet and knife resistant material. Not available for public use, yet."
Lestrade sighed. Apparently it wasn't just Sherlock who had a death wish, and Lestrade wasn't even going to ask about assassination attempts.
"Sir, I’ve brought up the floor plan of the pool." Khadija handed Mycroft her netbook, and he looked at it for some time.
"They'll probably meet near the pool itself, knowing Sherlock and his taste for the melodramatic. So Moriarty will probably put snipers here, and here. Also I would expect them here all around the stands." At those words Mycroft pointed to several points on the blueprints.
"We'll enter here. It will give us a view of the whole stands and most of the pool area." Mycroft sounded too practiced at this.
"How do you know all this?” Lestrade finally asked.
"I wasn't always a bureaucrat. I started out in a slightly more hands-on role," Mycroft replied with a smile.
"Sir," Khadija said sharply.
"Ah yes, I shouldn't be telling you this. Let’s just say this isn't the first time I’ve planned a retrieval mission."
They reached the pool at a few minutes past twelve. The pool was dark, and it was clear Sherlock was either already inside or wouldn't be coming.
Lestrade dropped his jacket in the car and adjusted the bulletproof vest. Mycroft's bodyguard and chauffeur checked their guns, and Khadija's hands looked surprisingly empty without her BlackBerry.
Mycroft, on the other hand, looked like he always did, like he was going for a casual stroll, his umbrella by his side
"Mycroft, do you ever leave that umbrella behind?" Lestrade asked as Mycroft walked calmly swinging his umbrella.
"No," Mycroft replied, and Khadija let out a soft laugh.
The pool was empty, no guards or sentries, and they reached the stands without any resistance. Mycroft's sharp eyes were the first to notice the snipers.
"There, there and there, and there are five more on the other side," he whispered to Lestrade. He signalled his two men to move around to the others. Khadija joined Lestrade as he moved to the one closest to them and the one between them and the view of the pool.
Khadija was the first to reach the sniper, and with one move she pinched a nerve in his shoulder, and the man went down without a sound. They moved to the edge of the stand and looked down on the pool area. There were three people besides the pool. Sherlock, who was aiming a gun at a stranger. Lestrade didn't want to know where Sherlock had got himself a gun. The stranger was probably the bomber, Moriarty. But it was John who made him gasp softly.
John was covered in large packages connected with wires. John was indeed the fifth hostage.
"You go on. Take out the rest. I'll keep my eye on them." Mycroft aimed his gun at Moriarty. Lestrade and Khadija moved on silently, taking out the snipers they encountered one by one.
Then suddenly Moriarty turned around and walked away. Sherlock dropped the gun and was on John in a second. He removed the vest and slid it away before picking up his gun again and leaving the pool area. John had sat down with his back to the stalls.
"What just happened?" Lestrade whispered to Khadija.
"I don't know, but I doubt it's over," she said gesturing to the snipers who were still standing at the ready. About half of them were still standing. "We need to go on."
Sherlock returned just as Lestrade used his gun to hit another sniper on the back of his head.
The scene that unfolded in front of them made Lestrade's heart sing. For the first time since Lestrade had known Sherlock, he saw true emotion in the man's words and actions. And if he was honest, the world seemed to be a bit brighter. Although he would have a stern conversation with Sherlock about gun safety, because the idiot would probably blow his brains out otherwise. Mycroft suddenly appeared at Lestrade's side, looking too happy for the situation.
They moved on, and just as they reached another of the snipers, they saw him move his hand to his ear listening intently. And he aimed his gun at Sherlock again. Khadija was on the man before Lestrade could assess what was going on. And he was down, his laser dot still aimed at John.
"We need to take out the rest now," Mycroft said, "because Sherlock is about to do something stupid." Just as Lestrade, Khadija and Mycroft made a move for the last two snipers, Sherlock pulled the trigger. In an instant Lestrade and Khadija pulled Mycroft down, shielding him from the blast.
The blast left Lestrade's ears ringing, and it took him a few seconds to realise the building hadn't collapsed around his ears. Mycroft pushed Lestrade away and ran to the edge of the stands.
Down below there was a bit more damage. The blast had knocked down some of the stalls, but that wasn't what drew their attention. On the floor were three figures. Moriarty had been thrown back and started to move again, but it was John and Sherlock Lestrade was looking at. John was lying on top of Sherlock, and it was clear he had pushed Sherlock down, but it was the red stain slowly forming between them that worried Lestrade. At least one of them had been hit. Then to his relief he saw Sherlock's hand move.
"He's shot," Lestrade said as he rushed to the stairs. Mycroft and Khadija were on his heels, and they reached the two men together. Khadija rushed passed them and placed her gun at Moriarty's head. Stopping the man from escaping.
Lestrade and Mycroft carefully turned John around away from Sherlock. Mycroft moved over to Sherlock immediately, but there was a worrying amount of blood on John's face, and for a moment Lestrade was afraid it was too late for the good doctor. Then he heard a faint groan coming from him, and Lestrade was beside him looking over the head wound. The bullet had dragged a stripe across John's left temple. The head wound bled badly, but wasn't deadly.
"How's Sherlock?" he asked as he started to look John over further.
"Hit in the shoulder. I suspect the bullet went via John's head before it hit Sherlock."
"John just has a head wound." Lestrade sighed. He looked at Mycroft who had removed his coat and pushed it down on Sherlock's shoulder hard.
"He's losing a lot of blood." At those words the pool was suddenly bathed in light, and several guns were aimed at them.
"Stand down," Khadija said in a commanding tone. She immediately started to order people to clean up the snipers. Then one of the men pushed Lestrade away from John and started to bandage up his head. Another tried to move Mycroft away, but Mycroft only had eyes for Sherlock.
"Sir?" the man asked tentatively, "if you let me…"
"Mycroft," Lestrade said, and took Mycroft's hands and moved him away gently.
They both looked as the man worked on Sherlock. It wasn't until he heard Donovan's voice arguing with Mycroft's men that he realised the emergency services had arrived.
The rest went by as in a dream. Mycroft allowed them to load Sherlock and John into ambulances, and the rest of the team was told to stand down and allow the police on the scene.
Ten minutes later Lestrade left the building, trusting the officers on the scene could handle it all. He knew Donovan would put up a good fight against Mycroft's men if they dared to take over the crime scene completely. He personally had two injured man to take care of.
He walked around the corner towards the black car and stopped dead in his tracks. There in front of him was the last of the snipers, the one they apparently missed. And he was holding a gun.
Lestrade stared at the red dot on his chest. And sighed. He knew that even with a bullet proof vest he wouldn't survive getting shot at this range.
"Would you mind lowering that gun?" Mycroft's voice came from besides the man, and even in this situation Mycroft sounded unbearably posh. The red dot didn't move.
"Fine; I did warn you." And suddenly, out of nowhere, a thin steel blade was pushed against the man’s chin.
The man dropped his gun in surprise as he looked down. The sight was rather ridiculous. A posh, well-dressed man pushing a sword against your chin would stun even the most professional assassin. Mycroft's men used the man's surprise and pushed the sniper to the ground, incapacitating him efficiently.
"Is that…?" Lestrade asked softly, staring at the blade incredulously.
"What do you think, inspector?"
"That's the most ridiculous, cheesy thing I have ever seen."
"I told you I could take care of myself."
"But that's a sword, a sword in your umbrella. Real life doesn't work that way," Lestrade protested.
"Blame Khadija. That woman watches too much TV, and when she discovered I was a world class fencer, she gave it to me. Never had cause to use it though." At those words Mycroft sheathed the sword again and walked away, swinging the thing.
"Are you coming, Gabriel? I have to escort my brother to the hospital again." With a sigh, Lestrade ran after the man.
***
The news that Moriarty had disappeared somewhere between the pool and the police station came just as they were told Sherlock and John would both make a full recovery. Mycroft seemed rather uninterested in the fact that the criminal responsible for Sherlock's situation was no longer in police hands. All he had eyes for was Sherlock.
If Lestrade was honest, he knew the fact that Mycroft was unconcerned should make him worry, and he should probably drag Mycroft into his office to have a talk. But as always, he didn't.
Lestrade spent the next hour shouting orders into his phone, making sure his men were okay, and making sure John Watson was placed next to Sherlock to make all their lives easier. It was only after he found himself a cup of coffee and some determination, he made a decision.
"Mycroft, can I have a word?" Lestrade asked softly.
"Of course." Mycroft let go of Sherlock's hand and joined Lestrade at the window.
"Should I be worried about Moriarty escaping?" Mycroft didn't react, just stared out of the window for a long time.
"I could have stopped him," Mycroft suddenly said. "I've been aware of him for some time, but politics made me hesitant to act."
"You mean you could've stopped this? All of this, the bombings, the deaths?" Lestrade felt anger. He might be a bent cop, but innocent people had died, and Mycroft had stood by watching.
"Yes.' Mycroft's answer was blunt. "But like I said, there's a bigger picture, and if I had removed him earlier, more lives would have been lost."
"But you're going to act now?"
"He hurt Sherlock, so I can't ignore him any longer. Although I can't imagine Sherlock being happy about it, but we'll add that to list of reasons why he hates me." The last words were said sadly.
"Can I expect a body shortly?" Lestrade said, his voice controlled, anger coiled in his stomach.
"Perhaps. Dead bodies always send such an interesting message, don't they?" At those words Mycroft sat down at Sherlock's side again, ignoring Lestrade. Lestrade kept his eyes on the brothers. Still fuming, still debating whether it was worth his career to drag Mycroft back to the station and throw him in a cell for the night. In the end he sighed and sat down next to Mycroft and Sherlock. Looking at the pale figure, not certain how he felt about the man beside him. Then he felt a soft pressure on his knee. He gently placed his hand on Mycroft's and gave a small squeeze. Lestrade knew things weren't good, and they might never be, but he took what he could get for now.
They sat in silence for a long time until a soft cough woke them out of their thoughts. Khadija was standing behind them looking all too collected and calm.
"Yes," Mycroft sighed. He removed his hand and stood up stiffly. He started to walk away, but changed his minded halfway through and placed his hand on Lestrade's shoulder.
"Go home, Gabriel. You're no use to him exhausted." Lestrade stood up, looking up at Mycroft.
"Join me?" he asked against his better judgement
"I'm sorry, Gabriel, I can't, not today." Mycroft truly looked apologetic as he threw one last look at Sherlock. Lestrade felt himself tremble; whether it was with anger, disappointment or sheer exhaustion he didn't know, but he knew that if he didn't walk away from Mycroft now, he would say things that would probably get him killed. Or at least in big trouble.
He turned and walked away. He knew Mycroft would be back, they would have their dinners again, their talks, they would still end up in Lestrade's bed; but Lestrade knew Mycroft would always be Sherlock's.
***
Lestrade closed yet another case, the tenth, that day. After everything that had happened the last week, this felt like yet another victory. He wondered how many more cases they could close after today. He knew the world had become just a bit safer. He knew he had just one other thing to do. And for once, he was going to enjoy it. He picked up the little black book and wrote:
James Moriarty
Criminal mastermind
Shot to the back of the head
Executed
Chapter 5