What You Took From Me

Why Didn't You Tell Me

“So do you want to tell me why you’re brother is alive?” Lestrade asked, phone pressed against his ear. He took a long drag from his cigarette, watching the people pass on the sidewalk.

            “There was some work that required his attention,” Mycroft explained, his tone flat. He sounded as if this wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, as if it didn’t affect him. He always sounded that way.

            Lestrade shook his head and let out a sigh. “I fired Anderson because he was so convinced Sherlock was alive.” The frustration ate at him. He’d felt bad for Anderson, knew that kind of guilt, but he’d had no choice. Anderson’s obsession with Sherlock had begun effecting his work. He’d been convinced that if they’d come across something interesting enough, Sherlock would come back. That if there was a crime they’d been struggling on, Sherlock would appear and solve it all. So he began slacking purposefully on his job, waiting.

            “You mean the one that… bullied,” Mycroft spat the word, showing a bit of his human side, “Sherlock?”

            “The one who never got away with it,” Lestrade defended. “The one who has more then made up for it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “National security,” Mycroft answered simply, stinging Lestrade’s heart just a bit. “A lot had gone into planning this, and we couldn’t let many people know. There was too much as risk.” There was a pause where Lestrade could hear Mycroft shift uncomfortably in his seat. “There… there still is,” Mycroft finally continued. “Keep your eyes open for anything suspicious.”

            “Is there something I should know?” Lestrade inquired, confused.

            Mycroft cleared his throat, stalling. “Someone made a threat. Nothing I or Sherlock can’t handle. I just thought I should warn you, let you know that I’m putting a security detail on you.”

            “What for?” Lestrade pressed, curiosity pushing away his confusion. Mycroft didn’t do security for anyone in particular, unless it was Sherlock.

            “As I said, someone made a threat,” Mycroft repeated, his tone unchanging. “Nothing that I or Sherlock can’t handle.”

            Lestrade took another drag from his cigarette. He was tempted to keep arguing, tempted to demand that Mycroft fill him in. There was a lot that Mycroft knew, that Lestrade didn’t mind being kept from him. But this was something different. He could feel it. This threat had been made personal. Surely, he receives threats all the time, but the fact that he’s… concerned? ... enough to say something, means, well, something.

            With a shake of his head, Lestrade let it go. He took a deep breath, “Well, are we still on for later?” Since Sherlock’s supposed death, since the funeral, Mycroft and Lestrade had made it a habit meeting up at a little café outside of town, away from all the big crowds. Lestrade had always figured it was Mycroft’s way of dealing with the loss of Sherlock, by being around those Sherlock spent time with so he could still feel connected in someway. Now, Lestrade wasn’t sure. But he didn’t mind.

            “Of course,” Mycroft replied, and Lestrade was almost positive there was a smile in his tone.