Lestrade and the Brother of Death

M. J. Trow

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Lestrade and the Brother of Death

Almost at once, the butler is murdered, and Lestrade begins a wheelchair investigation of the crime. After yet another murder occurs, Lestrade receives a cryptic letter, one that reminds him of a case that occurred on his very first day as a constable with the Metropolitan police.

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This book takes a look back in time at Lestrade in various stages of his life, from his stint on the Metropolitan police, to his first years at the Yard, to his promotion to Inspector, then Chief Inspector. He reminisces on cases that seemed unconnected, and yet the winter of proves they have very much in common.

We meet characters that populate all of the Lestrade stories: I don't see how it's possible, Mycroft, I'm sorry. But if he is alive, somehow, I know he'd be laughing at me. He would throw those words back at me, I know it. That's all we do. Do you know why I wear this ring?

He gave it to me one day, saying it was to remember my duty. To queen, country and family. He charged me to look after Sherlock. Lestrade gently covered Mycroft's ringed hand with his own. Is there anything I can do, anything I can get you, to help? It'll do you some good," Lestrade insisted gently. You look like you've been up all night. Lestrade smiled a little. Your shirt's rumpled at the back, like you've been sitting in the same position for a long time.

Your trousers are a little creased as well. And I know you, if you see any creases in your clothing you change immediately, and wouldn't dream of wearing creased clothes fresh from bed. So that would suggest that you didn't bother sleeping last night, you just stayed in your chair. You've got bags around your eyes, and you only call me Greg when you're tired.

Lestrade strained his mind, knowing that the distraction was helping. But the laces are still kinked, so… you haven't taken them off and put them back on again after a night's rest, they've stayed on your feet all night. Lestrade helped him undress and dress again in his blue silk pyjamas, as Mycroft seemed a little disconnected from his surroundings still and spent a few minutes trying to pull his trousers on by the feet rather than the waist until Lestrade noticed.

Normally Mycroft was uncomfortable with Lestrade undressing him — he always had to do it himself — from some sort of combination of a power complex and some residual body-image issues from his dieting; he was self-conscious about his slight belly. But he didn't make any comment this time.

He really was very tired, perhaps a quick nap wouldn't do any harm. Lestrade went into his en-suite bathroom and raided the cupboards, finding a packet of aspirin — and a bottle of sleeping pills that looked identical to the aspirin.

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He hesitated for only a second and took two of the sleeping pills instead. Mycroft took one look at the pills on Lestrade's hand and raised an eyebrow. Mycroft met his firm gaze and swallowed them without another word, closing his eyes and pulling the covers up around his neck.

Lestrade sat beside the bed, watching his partner as he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Half an hour later there was a discreet knock on the door and Anthea popped her head around. Lestrade resisted the urge to blush; she had walked in on them often enough. You're needed in work. Lestrade didn't bother questioning how she knew that — Mycroft tended to keep tabs on him somehow, so of course Anthea, his right-hand woman, would have similar knowledge.

A Brother's Grief, a sherlock fanfic | FanFiction

He sighed and kissed Mycroft's forehead, smoothing his hand over the worry-lines. A car outside took him to his office. He sighed and headed into the conference room, knowing that the media was waiting there for an official statement on Sherlock's death. It was going to be a hellish mess, he knew. Before heading into the room, he paused to text Anthea, Text me when he's about to wake up, I'll come round as soon after as possible. She texted back within a few seconds.

He'll want you to be there when he wakes up. Mycroft was normally so good at keeping his distance, and keeping cool and rational in his complicated and demanding job. Normally he would object to being watched over and taken care of. But he wasn't a politician today and his ice-mask had cracked.

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He was simply a grieving brother, and Lestrade would do anything he could to help him. And he would put every ounce of energy he had into finding Moriarty and making him pay for Sherlock's death, and most especially for Mycroft's grief. Just In All Stories: Story Story Writer Forum Community. Mycroft gets the call he had been dreading since Moriarty's release: His brother, mortal after all. Angsty oneshot, contains light Mystrade. BI Oneshot, fluff and angst, Mystrade. His phone rang, startling him. No one usually called him on his mobile, except… "Oh Christ," Lestrade said quietly, and picked up.

He hesitated a moment. Should have…" "Don't, Mycroft," Lestrade said painfully. Seriously, Mycroft, get some sleep. Let's just stay here. Lestrade tucked him into bed.

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