What You Took From Me

I'm Afraid Not

 Lestrade sat in his car, knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel, stomach in knots. He wanted to puke. He wanted to cry. He wanted to kick, shout, and bury the bastard that did this. This was wrong, so wrong. It was twisted. Painting the car in her blood like it was a god damn canvas. Who the hell could do that?

            Molly. Sweet, poor Molly.

            Christ, what now? Lestrade couldn’t think straight anymore. Not a single thought followed the next properly. Nothing was linear in his head anymore. Molly. Blood. Molly. Case. Molly. Threats. Molly. Sherlock. Mycroft. Molly. John. Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft! Mycroft had said someone was threatening the people the Holmes’ brothers cared about. Sherlock might not seem like he cared, but he was with Molly constantly, and she spoke of him frequently. Even if he didn’t care, he sure as hell seemed like he did. Hell, the look on his face when he saw her…

            Digging in his pocket, Lestrade pulled out his phone. Mycroft knew enough about the threats, maybe he knew who was behind them. Maybe he could give Lestrade a lead. Anything. Just anything.

            The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. Confusion wrapped around Lestade’s mind. This was Mycroft’s personal line. He always answered. He always had it at his side. Lestrade dialed the number again, and it rang through just like before. Over and over, it rang through and concern began to wriggle its way into his heart. Where was Mycroft?

            “Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice finally answered, four tries later. “Is everything okay?” His voice was calm on the surface, but like a river, Lestrade could hear just how unsteady it really was.

            “No,” Lestrade replied, his voice quaking. “I’m not okay. Sherlock is not okay. John is not okay. None of us are okay.”

            “What happened?” His voice hardened, composed itself. He sounded more focused. “What happened, Gregory?”

            “Mol-” Lestrade’s throat closed up around her name and a silence fell upon them. Mycroft didn’t need to ask if she were dead or alive, or what happened to her. He just knew something did. Before Lestrade spoke again, he tried to get his breath back, to feel his heart beat again. “Is there anything you know, anything at all?”

            “I wish there was, Gregory.”

            A breath of burning air left Lestrade, and he didn’t know whether to feel relieved that Mycroft wasn’t holding anything back or broken that even Mycroft didn’t have a clue.

            “I’m sorry,” Mycroft choked, the phrase unfamiliar on his tongue, Lestrade could tell, could hear it. He didn’t apologize often. So why was he now?

            “It wasn’t your fault,” Lestrade assured, his stomach still churning, every nerve twitching. The only thing that kept his head from popping was knowing that Mycroft was okay.

            “Close enough,” Mycroft grumbled to himself. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

            “Dinner,” Lestrade decided. “Tonight and we can discuss it. My place. No arguments.”

            There was a pause, “Of course not. I’ll be there at five.” There was something off in his voice. “Thank you.” That phrase above all else seemed strange, coming from him.          

            “For what?” Lestrade asked, his face crinkling in confusion. His eyes were trained on his steering wheel, hoping to find the answers somewhere in the cracked surface.

            “Everything.”

            Lestrade’s mind began to spin. What was all of this about? Mycroft- it was like he wasn’t himself. He was just saying all of these things that didn’t make sense. Not for him to be saying. He didn’t just say ‘thank you’ or ‘sorry’. He was Mycroft Holmes. The British government. Sure he had grace and manners, but they didn’t just spew from his lips for nothing.

            “Before this conversation ends,” Mycroft added, “There’s one thing I have left to say.”

            “Can’t it wait until we see each other?” Lestrade wasn’t sure he could handle anything else.

            “I’m afraid not,” Mycroft said, “Don’t do anything until Sherlock is there. Nothing to the scene, to the body, any of it. Okay?”

            “Okay,” Lestrade agreed almost hesitantly. Mycroft was hiding something, Lestrade knew it; there was no hiding it now. But what? What was he not saying? “I’ll see you at five.”

            “Farewell, Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft said, his tone steadier than it had been their entire conversation. “Farewell.”

            The line went dead and Lestrade stared at his phone in his hands. What the hell? His insides knotted up and his chest felt tight. Something didn’t feel right. Something had been off the entirety of their conversation. And Lestrade sure as hell wasn’t waiting until five tonight to find out what or why.

            He started up his car and started to drive. Though Lestrade had only been to Mycroft’s house once for one perfect night, the memory was burned in his mind. He was going to find the house, find Mycroft, and find the truth.

            Mycroft closed his eyes and swallowed as he set his phone down. He let the darkness behind his eyelids comfort him beyond anything else, let his breath calm his racing heart. Acceptance flowed through him. In the end, everything would be okay. Sherlock would endure. John would be alright. Gregory would live. Even Molly would survive- if his theory was correct anyways. But they would be alright. Even if he wasn’t.

            “Alright, now stand up,” said the voice, Moran’s voice, through the darkness of Mycroft’s comfort.

            Opening his eyes, Mycroft looked up. Before him stood the tall ex-sniper, his sandy hair a bed-ridden mess, the stubble on his chin making him look unclean. His clothes- dark jeans and a tee-shirt- were wrinkled, stained by blood. Mycroft’s blood. Before the phone call, Sebastian Moran had taken a few… practice… swings. The gun currently held to his head was for mere threats, incase he slipped up during his conversation, incase he tried anything at all. But Mycroft knew the ex-sniper wouldn’t use the gun, knew he didn’t need to.

            Mycroft rolled his shoulders, loosened the muscles. It would hurt less that way. He took a deep breath, inhaling what he hoped was courage, and stood. The gun was lowered from his head, the safety flipped on, and slipped back into it’s holster.

            “This is going to hurt,” Moran said, his tone cold. “That’s what he wanted. Pain.”

            Mycroft smirked, “Wants.”

            Sebastian only took a second to look confused before taking his swing. He clipped Mycroft in the eye, causing white dots to dance in his sight. But Mycroft, though not used to fighting, fought back. He tried to defend himself, tried to even go on the offensive, and for a guy who spent most of his time behind a desk, he did alright. The blocking hurt, so did the punches, but in the end, the ever fit mercenary won.

            Mycroft could taste his own blood, could feel his every muscle throb. A different kind of darkness crawled into his vision, the kind that was all encompassing, the kind that promised nothing. In a moment like this, Mycroft almost wished he believed in a higher power, a better place. It would be a comforting thought, but he wasn’t that kind of person. The only comforting thought he could give himself was Lestade. He was going to be okay. Lestrade wasn’t going to be hurt. He would survive, carry on, and save other lives.