for @daynaan-black-dawn who asked for them being locked up somehow 🙂
Mycroft followed Greg Lestrade down a flight of stairs and into a flat, the door shutting behind them.
Greg turned, looking over his shoulder at the elder Holmes brother. “Thanks for helping me out with this, Mycroft. I really appreciate it.”
“I do have to admit that you piqued my curiosity,” Mycroft replied.
“It has nothing to do with showing up Sherlock?”
Mycroft huffed in amused irritation. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
They came to what looked like the living room of the apartment that they were in. “This is where it happened,” Greg said.
Mycroft rolled his eyes at Greg’s back. The large bloodstain on the carpet gave it away, he thought.
The younger man began to walk the perimeter of the room, taking everything in, his arms folded behind him. Every now and again he would pause to look at a book more carefully or draw a finger down a shelf as if to check for dust.
Greg leaned back against a wall, crossed his arms, and watched quietly. He was amused by the differences between Mycroft and Sherlock and their approach to deductions. Sherlock never shut up, rattling out a stream of verbal nonsense at times until he finally came up with what happened. Mycroft, on the other hand, was quiet and reserved as he was in life.
After a few long moments of silence, Mycroft finally turned to Greg. “I know you do not want to hear this, but it was his wife,” Mycroft said quietly. He pulled out a sheet of paper from where he had retrieved it between two books.
Greg let out a long breath. He had had his doubts about the wife’s alibi, but now he knew.
“Thanks, Mycroft.“
Mycroft merely nodded.
Greg sighed heavily, pushing away from the wall. He slowly led them back down the hallway to the door. Greg turned the knob, but nothing happened.
"Is there a problem?” Mycroft asked from behind Greg.
“Yeah, the door knob won’t turn,” Greg muttered.
“Shall I try?” Mycroft inquired.
Greg shrugged and stepped back, allowing Mycroft to try. Mycroft turned the knob; nothing. Nothing at all.
“Well, this is rather inconvenient,” Mycroft said.
“Yeah,” Greg sighed, running a hand through his silver strands before rummaging about in the pockets of his coat for his mobile so he could ring Donovan.
After a few minutes of what Mycroft would consider bickering, Greg hung up his phone and turned to Mycroft. “She’ll be here in about an hour.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but wisely said nothing.
“D’you want to sit down?” Greg asked. “In a room not covered in bloodstains,” Greg quickly added.
“Very well,” Mycroft said and once again followed Greg.
They sat somewhat awkwardly in the kitchen, on rickety wooden chairs that didn’t seem to fit the room.
Finally, Mycroft broke the silence. “I was glad to receive your call,” Mycroft said quietly.
“Really?"
"Yes. I had been hoping to contrive a meeting with you for some time.”
“Let me guess. About Sherlock." Greg sounded disappointed. The last time he and Mycroft had drinks, he was certain that there was something there between them, but then Mycroft had to leave in a hurry, and Greg never had the nerve to say anything about it.
"No. I wanted to apologise about our last meeting. I did not wish to leave so suddenly. I … was enjoying your company.”
Greg smiled. “I was enjoying yours.”
“Perhaps we could try again this evening? Over dinner?”
Locked Door
Published
Mystrade-Lecroft 