Monsters Aren't Real (Superlock)

Chapter 21

Lestrade didn't know what to think about the situation. This whole night had been a mess. First, Sherlock had called him, losing his wits about two serial killers who aren't even supposed to be alive. Then, after some reason he had decided to trust the consulting detective and aid him in his search for the two dead criminals, Mycroft had shown up. Mycroft, of all people. The older Holmes who liked to play in the shadows, pulling the strings while Sherlock enjoyed the spotlight. If you thought Sherlock meant trouble, then you hadn't had to deal with Mycroft.

The older Holmes brother kindly asked him to refrain from answering Sherlock's plea for help, and after he had seen Lestrade hesitate, he had simply ordered it. Lestrade, being one of the few people that were aware that Mycroft didn't have "just a job with involving the government" had no choice but to comply. He had dismissed Donovan, who had sent him a confused look but didn't argue.

As soon as Donovan had disappeared Mycroft started to speak, his half smile melted right of his face and was replaced with a slightly worried look. Meaning, knowing the Holmes, that he was sick with worry and fear.

"Is your weapon fully loaded, detective?" Mycroft asked as he turned back to his car.

Lestrade frowned. "It rarely isn't."

"Excellent, let's hope it's still fully loaded by the end of the night." Mycroft had almost whispered, and he had invited Lestrade to join him in the car.

It had been quite a ride. Lestrade didn't really know if the chauffeur had been a really good driver, or a really bad one. They sped through the streets, ignoring every speed limit as they waved through the traffic. However, some crazy odds caused every streetlight to be green for their favor. Thinking about it, it probably wasn't luck that had caused that.

Silently, Lestrade's unlikely companion had pulled out his gun from some hidden compartment and loaded it, carefully inspecting every bullet looking for flaws and imperfections before he slid them in the barrel of the gun. It was when then that Lestrade realized something, something that he would never think about again but had struck him as odd that moment. Because the bullets Mycroft had been loading in his gun hadn't been ordinary bullets, the bullets had been made of pure silver.

After Mycroft had put his gun away again Lestrade had started to get annoyed. Mycroft was even worse than Sherlock. At least the younger brother would hint at what he was about to do, like some twisted game of sorts the younger Holmes laid out hidden clues as to what his plan was, clues Lestrade had only managed to solve once, but nonetheless, the clues had been there. With Mycroft, it was different. Mycroft didn't feel the need to prove his superiority anymore, at least, not to somebody as simple like Lestrade himself. No, Mycroft was silent and seemed quite comfortable not telling the detective in the car a thing about what they were about to do.

Lestrade crossed arms and leant back in his seat.

"You know, I always wonder with you Holmes, you always have to make it so darn difficult. If you are so worried about that brother of yours, why not let me bring back the back he wanted?" Lestrade wondered out loud.

Mycroft didn't react, didn't look at him. Lestrade started to wonder if he had even heard him at all, but then started to speak. His voice was soft and what Lestrade mistook as annoyance, was actually angst.

"This is no case for the police, this is no case for us two, let alone somebody for somebody as labile as Sherlock."

Lestrade had shaken his head. You only waste your time if you try to make sense of the Holmes brothers.

Finally, they arrived at their destination. It was some kind of deserted factory that Lestrade had vaguely recognized. They weren't alone. As their car sped through the open gates Lestrade could see a few black vans scattered around.