Monsters Aren't Real (Superlock)

Chapter 13

Greg Lestrade was having a wonderful day. Today he had finished one of his many cases, which he had been working on, he singlehandedly had managed to find the man responsible for the attempted murder. Of course, this was his job, but in these days, it became difficult for a detective to do the job and not have anybody else trying to steal the spotlight. No, this time, it was Detective Lestrade who cracked the case, not Donovan, not Jeff, not Susan and of course, not Sherlock. It was some old style detective work, but he had managed to do the job. After celebrating a little with his colleagues, Lestrade had retired to his office, where he spent the rest of the day filling in the blasted paperwork that came with the job. That was a damper.

But now the paperwork was done and the end of his work day was nearing. He was sitting at his desk sipping his coffee, comfortably watching the clock tick away the last minutes of his day. He was just wondering if he should cook this evening, or if he would just settle for some takeaway. Both had their benefits, both had their disadvantages. He didn't mind cooking, actually enjoyed it if he were honest, but cleaning up afterwards was hell, actual hell. Just going for the takeaway was a lot easier, took a lot less time and he wouldn't have to do the dishes that evening. However, he wasn't really a big fan of takeaway. He just enjoyed the taste of home meals better, reminded him of his mother, who had thought him to cook. Just as the thought of his mother convinced him to cook himself tonight, the tunes of the standard iPhone ringtone disturbed the peaceful silence.

Who would call at this hour? He wondered. Nobody from the office would call, not without trying to call the desk phone first. Could it be his parents? But they were supposed to be in Spain this moment, enjoying a vacation together while their good health still allowed it. Frowning, he reached which he had tossed on his desk earlier. Then he saw the caller ID.

'Sherlock Holmes'

Lestrade shoulders slumped slightly. He could see his relaxing evening disappear in a cloud of smoke. If Sherlock decided to call him, instead of the other way round, it meant something was aloof. The last time Sherlock had needed him, Lestrade had spent the whole night setting up SWAT teams and directing each team to one of the many crack houses in London. The SWAT was supposed to hide in the neighborhood and keep an eye on each of the houses. Waiting for a 'signal' Sherlock explained which signal, nor why he needed the SWAT to surround those junky dens. Long story short, the night ended with two of the houses completely burned down, several drug gang people dead, and the street flooded. Apparently John had caused the flood, somehow. He didn't know how John had managed to flood a whole bloody street, but after some thought, Lestrade realized he really, really didn't want to know. All he knew was that the night ended with his team being able to capture the whole leading circle of one of London's most dangerous gangs. That in itself wasn't too bad, what was bad however was that the responsibility to explain the whole ordeal had fallen upon him, and figuring out how to explain four dead gang members, two burnt down houses and a flooded street to the press wasn't his description of a fun night. Afterwards, he spent several days filling out the paperwork explaining why the SWAT teams had been essential and why had he had used his authority to call upon them correctly. Meanwhile, Sherlock had already solved four other murders and had caused one shooting incident. Life wasn't fair.

However, even if he knew that his night would be ruined, Lestrade didn't hesitate to pick up the phone. Sherlock was his friend and needed him. He would be there for him, even when if that meant sacrificing one of his precious nights off to lay in a ditch somewhere next to some abandoned farm house to play as look out while Sherlock and John were searching the barn.

He pushed the green flashing button and pressed the phone against his ear.

"You're speaking wi-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Sherlocks rushed voice interrupted him.

"You need to alert your full police force. I need them on the street, now. Tell them to look out for a man 6 feet 1 inch, probably wearing working boots with jeans and a leather jacket and tell them to look out for a man who is 6 feet 5 inch who is also wearing working boots and jeans but with a plaid jacket. They will be together probably, their names are Dean and Sam Winchester. Two highly dangerous criminals from the US who are supposed to be dead, but aren't. I've emailed you their files, but you can look at those later. Now you need to order the full London police force on high alert, quickly!"

Lestrade had never heard Sherlock this way before. Sure, he sounded as calculating and sure as ever. But there was something else in his voice, something he couldn't completely hide. With a start, Lestrade realized it was panic. He became on edge, what possible could cause the panic in Sherlock's voice?

"Wait, Sherlock what is-"

"Just do as I say!" Sherlock barked back.

"I need some more-"

*toot toot toot*

Sherlock had ended the call.

Silence returned to the office. For a few seconds, Lestrade was frozen. Through his window he could see Donovan walking to the water cooler, holding a few files and rubbing her brow. Anderson just ended his conversation with one of the assistants and was now walking towards the door, probably leaving for the day. None of them knew about the phone call, which only lasted a few seconds, had taken place. None of them knew about the turmoil that phone call had caused in Lestrade's head.

He didn't know what to do. If he rung the alarm, and set the whole London police force on alert, just like Sherlock had requested, and it appeared it hadn't been a justified call. It would cost him his job, at the least. After all, who would justify it, calling upon the whole police force to chase criminals who were supposed to be dead, all because of one phone call from a sociopath, who hadn't even explained himself.

A moment longer he was torn between the two options; Handle, or don't. But he broadened his shoulders and clenched his fists. Sociopath or not, Sherlock was his friend and had trusted him to take care of this. And the day Lestrade stopped supporting his friends was the day he wasn't worthy of any. He grabbed his coat from his chair and snatched his keys from he desk.

Sherlock had never been wrong, and he'd be damned if this would be the first time.

Stil wrestling to get his arms in the right holes of his coat he marched out of his office door.

"Donovan! Forget the water, we've got work to do."

Immediately she put her half filled cup on one of the nearby desks and was beside him in less than a second.

"Why? What happened?" She asked with an urgent voice.

"I've got a call." Lestrade grunted. Finally having won the battle with his coat, he bypassed a very confused looking Anderson near the door.

"Wait, does that mean... I can't.. go... Home?" Anderson stuttered.

"Greg, what do you mean you've got a call?!" Donovan shouted after him.

But Lestrade ignored them both. He needed to find Sherlock. The consulting detective was unpredictable on his best days, and now, in this state, nobody could know what he would do. On top of that, when Lestrade needed to be on the streets when the police started to swarm the city. Searching for his phone which he had put in one of his pockets, he scanned the streets, searching for his car.

"Greg, if this is..."

Donovan stood next to him now, but her voice slowly silenced. It was then that Lestrade noticed the black Rolls Royce Phantom slowly driving towards them.

Lestrade froze, for a second time that evening. He recognized that car. And if the owner of that car had decided to come in person to the police station, then it meant trouble. Real trouble.

While Donovan and Lestrade stood in a tense silence. The car parked and the chauffeur exited the vehicle to open the door for the passenger. Out of the now open car door, a cane appeared and with a neat *clack* as it hit the streets. The cane was followed by a long and thin balding man, who was dressed in a very high-end suit. A small smirk graced his lips, yet his eyes were cold and serious.

"Lestrade, what a pleasure." his smooth voice said, not betraying the man's true emotions.

"Mycroft." Lestrade answered the man coolly. "I guess you aren't here for a cup of tea?"