Tell Me Lies | Mystrade |

Two

Greg

"This is me," I told the woman as she followed me into my flat.

"Ooh, this is nice!" She said, her voice making me cringe. She was louder than the usual ones. Scottish. I'd picked her up at some grotty pub in East London where she'd been sitting alone. I sat myself down beside her and she practically threw herself at me, reeking of desperation. I grinned to myself as I shut and locked the front door behind us. She was too loud but too easy.

"Fuck!" I hissed in fright as she squealed. I cleared my throat to address her calmly. "Sorry, what?"

"This picture is so cute!" She pointed at a framed picture on my wall of my mother and I. "Who is that."

"Me and my mother," I told her, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind. I rested my chin on top of her head and she giggled, the sound - somewhat comically - resembling the gobble of a turkey. This one was going to have to be quick, I don't think even London's Most Wanted could handle much more of that woman.

I looked around my living room, looking for the nearest weapon. They were scattered all over the place; there was a knife taped under the coffee table and a gun on top of the highest shelf of the bookshelf. The nearest weapon was a knife nestled into the cushions of my sofa, and with one hand I reached for it.

"Sorry," I said as I lined it up, "I've had such a lovely time."

With one more shrill scream, the woman dropped to the ground.

I put my fingers to her neck. There was no pulse; she was dead. I had killed her in front of a picture of my mother. 'So unclassy, Greg,' I thought to myself. 'Even for you.'

I went to the bathroom and cleaned my hands of the blood upon them, thankful not much had gotten anywhere else.

I dragged her body to my car, and drove to the Thames with her rattling around in the boot. My blood was pumping hard, my head swimming with euphoria. Kills always had me like that. Perhaps that was why I did it so often.

I scoffed as I pulled up to the river. Of course that was the reason.

Making sure there was no one around, I hauled the woman's body over my shoulder and carried her to the river. I carelessly dropped her onto the ground and shoved rocks into the (helpful) pockets of her dress, before finally dropping her in the river.

I watched her as she sunk before washing my hands off in the water again, before pulling my phone out of my coat pocket. I dialled the number I had recently memorised, and it was answered on the second ring.

"Mycroft Holmes," came a tired voice.

"Mr. Holmes," I said lightly with a smile on my face that I knew he would sense. "I've been a very naughty boy."

"Where?" He sighed.

"The Thames. I'll see you tomorrow. Good night." I hung up the phone and grinned harder.

I knew who he was. I'd always known about Mycroft Holmes. I knew all about him, too. He thought he was unseen, maybe sometimes he thought himself to be unappreciated in comparison to others. He was the man behind the British Government, though he ran it from behind the scenes. He had the whole of Britain under his thumb, and he played God over it all. He decided who lived and died, who was worthy and who was not. In that sense, he was just as dangerous as I was - and undoubtedly even more so.

He thought he was unappreciated, and yet no one appreciated him more than I did. And he hadn't had a clue up until I finally got into contact.

I got back into my car and drove back to my flat. I knew the man would have people down straight away. He was nothing if he wasn't swift.

I sighed as I thought about how much I'd done to get his attention, how many days and months I'd spent avoiding the Metropolitian Scuffers of London to make them lose hope. And now, I finally had Mycroft Holmes. A year in the making.

I got home and scrubbed the speckles of blood off of the wooden floor before having a shower. The endorphins were beginning to wear off, and I was meeting Mycroft Holmes -officially- for the first time the next day.

Eventually I crawled into bed, though I very highly doubted I would be able to sleep. All I could think about was Mycroft Holmes.

God, he was sexy. Far better than his little brother, I thought. Everything about him screamed elegance. His reddish brown hair was always slicked back, eyes a piercing green, and face always impeccably smooth - except for when he managed a holiday, when he'd let an ever-so-sexy stubble grow. His lips were looked soft and pink - I always wondered what they looked like when he orgasmed; would he bite them or let them part in an 'O' shape as he moaned? - and his style was so complementary to his body it took everything in me not to moan.

Mycroft Holmes was my one weakness, and I promised myself I'd remove him permanently once I'd had some fun and indulged a little. He was too dangerous to remain alive. Once he got bored or sick of playing my game, he'd undoubtedly hand me in to the police, and I had no intention of going back to prison.

I eventually fell asleep, dreaming only of Mycroft Holmes and the events that were undoubtedly to come. After months of planning and preparing, everything was finally falling into place. I, Gregory Lestrade, was to talk to the British Government, Mycroft Holmes, in person.