Brotherly Love 5/5
Title: Brotherly Love Chapter 5
Author: dweo
Words: 2673
Rating: Teen
Characters: Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock, John, Not!Anthea
Pairings: Lestrade/Mycroft
Warnings this chapter: Major Character Death
Beta: The Lovely grassle
Summary: When people say that the day he met Sherlock Holmes had to have been the most incredible day of his life, he agrees. But what Lestrade never tells them is that it had very little to do with Sherlock.
AN: Written for sherlockbigbang
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
In the end it had taken only one bullet, one single bullet.
They came running around the corner into the alleyway, the blue light of the police cars lighting up the alley, casting eerie shadows. The shot rang, making everything freeze for a moment. Lestrade felt his heart stop when he saw a figure double over before collapsing on the ground.
John had been the first to reach Sherlock, turning him over onto his back, a red stain slowly forming on Sherlock's abdomen. John frantically pressed his hands into Sherlock's stomach with force.
“Sherlock, talk to me,” he yelled out.
"It hurts." Sherlock voice was soft with pain.
"I know, just hold on. The ambulance will be here any moment. Everything will be okay." Lestrade wondered how as he watched blood blossom through John’s fingers.
"You always were a bad liar," Sherlock whispered, his hand taking one of John’s in his. The wound bled on steadily between the fingers of John's other hand. John let out a strangled laugh. "You know I’m dying." Sherlock brought John's hand to his face, holding it there for a moment, before his own hand dropped uselessly to the ground.
"You’re not dying. I can’t let you." John’s bloody hand cradled Sherlock's face, John watching as Sherlock’s whole body trembled in pain.
"I can feel my stomach acid burn my insides. Of course I’m dying." Sherlock voice wavered, and Lestrade felt his heart stop. They watched as Sherlock’s eyes slid closed, nobody wanting to speak, nobody wanting to acknowledge what was happening.
"Sherlock, keep talking. You have to stay awake." John gently tapped Sherlock's face, and Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, opening to a slit.
"Why?" He managed to sound petulant even when he was dying.
"You’ll go into shock." John’s voice was calm and collected, but Lestrade could see his body tremble.
"And why would that be a problem; are we out of blankets?" Lestrade let out a strangled laugh, which was halted abruptly by Sherlock’s next words. "I’m dying; I don’t think we have to worry about shock."
"You can’t die. You are Sherlock Holmes. We need you. I need you." John sounded suddenly desperate.
"I’ll miss you too," Sherlock said, his voice slurring. "Tell Mycroft I’m sorry." Sherlock’s eyes closed, and he would not open them again.
Lestrade immediately sprang into action, trying to block out the sobbing of the man clutching Sherlock's body to him. He walked to the figure pushed to the ground, his hand behind his back held together with flexicuffs that were just a trifle too tight, cutting into the man’s wrist.
"Get him up," he snarled. The man was pulled up, and Lestrade was on him in an instant, his hand around the man's throat like a vice.
"You are in trouble," he whispered into the man's face. He swung his fist and was caught midswing by a hand clamped around his wrist. The movement was so unexpected that he let the man go and swung around. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man slide down the wall, gasping for breath, a hand around his throat.
"I’d rather not have to use my influence to get you out of prison for police brutality." Mycroft's voice sounded amused. Lestrade looked at him and watched the smile slide from Mycroft's face.
"Sherlock," Lestrade stammered.
"Where?" Mycroft asked, his hand tightening painfully around Lestrade's wrist, but before Lestrade could reply, Mycroft let go suddenly and walked into the alley.
Lestrade stood still for a moment, regaining his composure before slowly following Mycroft. Part of him wanted to stop Mycroft and hold him, because this was going to break the man's heart.
Just as he reached the corner, Mycroft reached Sherlock's body, which was still being held by John.
Lestrade suddenly had the urge to send all the people around him away. All those gawping at the little scene before them. He couldn't have them watch what would be an extremely private moment. Mycroft knelt next to the body of his baby brother, not caring that he was destroying his expensive suit. He raised a trembling hand, and his fingers pushed the curls from Sherlock's forehead before carefully cradling his face.
Lestrade could feel Mycroft's assistant come up closely beside him. He could feel a tremble run through her body at the sight of an extremely intimate moment.
Mycroft lowered his head so that his forehead touched Sherlock's, his mouth moving, whispering. John's hand suddenly covered Mycroft's, squeezing it gently before dropping his hand again.
Mycroft slowly moved. He dropped a gentle kiss on Sherlock's forehead and stood up, squeezing John's shoulder before walking back to Lestrade.
His assistant was beside him in a flash, and a lively conversation started. She was typing everything on her BlackBerry.
After a few minutes she nodded, and Mycroft turned to Lestrade.
"I have arranged a car that will bring him to St Bart's. Molly Hooper will do the autopsy. I want a copy of all the evidence and reports you gather. If there are any developments, you will notify my PA. I have a funeral to arrange." At those words Mycroft started to walk past him. Lestrade wanted to say something, needed to say something, but as he opened his mouth, Mycroft spoke.
"Thank you." He looked straight into Lestrade’s eyes, and Lestrade knew words weren't necessary. Lestrade couldn't stop himself and squeezed the man's shoulder for a second as he walked past, and Lestrade almost thought he imagined Mycroft's hand covering his and squeezing back. The moment passed by all too quickly. Mycroft's PA smiled gently at him before both disappeared into the car.
Lestrade sighed, turned around, and started to bark out orders just to take his mind of Mycroft, Sherlock, and the end of the world as he knew it.
***
Lestrade knew the next day would be bad, and he had been right. The witness statements were bad; interviewing John had been worse.
He watched John enter, accepting condolences from everybody he encountered. His face was set hard like the soldier he was. Sarah was at his side, her eyes red-rimmed. With a jolt Lestrade realised that she had known Sherlock just as long as she had known John, and while they might not have been friends (Sherlock didn't have friends, John excepted) they both accepted and like each other well enough.
The interview was painful, but they both shook hands at the end with a smile, remembering him. He had spent the rest of the day writing until the moment that Donovan had run into his office, and he knew the day had just taken a turn for the worse
"Sir, bad news; there’s been a breakout in the holding cells, four people have escaped." Lestrade closed his eyes. He didn't have to hear what else she was going to say; he already knew.
"Robson?"
"Yep." Donovan looked apologetic
"How?" he growled
"As far as we have been able to determine, two men came in, shut down the live CCTV feed to the observation gallery, overrode the cell locks and left under the threat of guns. Luckily they didn't shut down the CCTV completely, so we caught them on film."
"Show me." He knew he sounded harsher than she deserved, but he cared about only one thing. Donovan handed him one of the evidence screens. He pushed the Play button and swiped it until he reached the right moment.
The CCTV footage showed a scared Robson being pushed by one of the masked men. It was clear they weren't there for him; that he was just an unlucky bystander. An unlucky bystander that was now out there. Free, unpunished for what he had done.
"Couldn't they have taken somebody else? I don't know, there enough minor criminals in there that deserve to be kidnapped," he said as he slammed the portable screen on the desk, not caring for the ominous scratching sound it made.
"I'm going out; call me as soon as they’ve found him." Lestrade stood up and pulled his coat from the back of his chair. He had to inform Mycroft. If somebody could find Robson it was him. What Mycroft would do with Robson was another matter, and he really didn't want to think about that right now.
He wasn't surprised when a big black car appeared out of nowhere the moment he walked out of sight of the Yard. He got in. To his surprise the car was empty: no Mycroft, no assistant. Just a silent driver.
He groaned. This wasn't good, this wasn't good at all. He steeled himself again, this time ready to grovel in front of the most powerful man in the world. Because there was no doubt in Lestrade's mind that Mycroft was going to be pissed off, and if Mycroft was pissed off, people died. And Lestrade was going to be in the direct firing line.
They arrived in one of Mycroft's gloomy empty warehouses, one he seemed to have a ready supply of.
"Gabriel." Mycroft welcomed him, his face unreadable, his voice pleasant. That alone made the hairs on Lestrade’s neck stand up.
"We need to talk," he continued as Lestrade didn't answer.
"Yeah, I was afraid you were going to say that," Lestrade replied.
"Gabriel, I'm going to give you one chance, one chance only." Mycroft suddenly sounded cold, a controlled fury in his whole body, his eyes reading Lestrade like he was an interesting specimen under his microscope.
"One chance?" Lestrade strangled out, feeling truly scared now.
"One chance to walk away. To leave this behind." His hand made a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole world. "To leave me behind," he added.
"I understand," Lestrade said, swallowing his fear down, but standing his ground. He knew he was staying. He should have protected Sherlock. It was his job after all. And he hadn't even been able to keep his killer prisoner. He would take whatever Mycroft would do to him.
"Good," Mycroft walked to the car and opened the door, waiting for Lestrade to enter.
Lestrade sat back; his eyes closed trying to keep his mind of what Mycroft would do him, to keep his mind from the little black book that might contain his name soon.
When the car stopped ten minutes later in another deserted warehouse, Lestrade was welcomed by the sight of Mycroft's assistant, no BlackBerry in her hand, but instead a sleek black gun, safety still on. Lestrade swallowed, stepping out. Mycroft silently accepted the gun. The woman talking softly in to his ear.
"Thank you." Mycroft smiled his genuine smile at her, the one he reserved only for Lestrade in the early morning just before he would leave to start another war.
Lestrade looked around. In the middle of the room was an empty chair, restraints ready. And he swallowed again. Torture and then death? He wondered to himself.
"Bring him in." Mycroft's voice broke through Lestrade's thoughts, and to his surprise, a bound, blindfolded and gagged man was brought in. A man he knew, he realised with a jolt.
Robson.
The man seemed uninjured, although his trousers were soiled. Lestrade couldn't blame him as he suddenly understood everything.
It had been Robson they had been after, after all. He should have known; the escape had Mycroft's fingerprints all over it. Then another realization hit him. Mycroft hadn't brought him here to be the victim: he was here to be a witness. Robson was pushed on the chair and tied up again, his gag removed.
"Do you know why you are here?" Mycroft asked pleasantly
"I... I…don't know," the man stammered, his blindfold slowly turning wet; he was crying.
"You are here to die," Mycroft said, the gun still at his side.
"Die?" Robson's voice broke
"Remove the blindfold. I want him to look his killer in the face." Robson looked at Mycroft, his eyes on the gun, and Lestrade saw the man turn ashen. For a moment Lestrade thought that Mycroft would scare the man to death. Then Robson looked around the room, his eyes locking on Lestrade, realisation making them wide as he recognised Lestrade.
"Please, help me,' he begged. "You're the police. You can't let him do this." There was so much desperation in his voice that Lestrade knew he should do something, because the man was right; he was a police officer, and he should stop this. But he didn't; he just stood there and watched. He had been in Mycroft's pocket for too long already to do anything else.
"He isn't going to help you. You killed his friend. You killed my bother. And I don't take it lightly when people touch what is mine." At those words Mycroft put the gun to the man's forehead. "I could just kill you like this. It would be quick."
"Or perhaps here." He pushed the gun into Robson's stomach. "Do you know it can take people fifteen minutes to die when a bullet hits their stomach? It is an extremely painful way to die. Those stomach acids, they burn. You shot Sherlock in the stomach, didn't you? Perhaps this would be a good punishment, make you feel what he felt. At least he had his best friend with him. You'll die alone." Mycroft walked away, and Lestrade wondered how he was going to torture the man more. The guy was just some petty thief that had had the bad fortune to kill the best-protected man in the world, and now he was going to pay with his life.
"Untie him," Mycroft said, standing with his back to Robson. Lestrade saw relief wash over the man, and Lestrade felt his heart sink. Mycroft wasn't going to let the man go. Torturing him wouldn't be enough revenge for Mycroft. Of that Lestrade was certain.
Robson stood looking bewildered, unsure what to do next. The choice was taken from him when he was pushed to his knees by Mycroft's assistant. Mycroft walked to him, standing behind the man.
"You don't deserve this," he said as he pushed the gun into the man's neck, forcing the man's head down. Lestrade closed his eyes, knowing what would follow. The shot rang through the empty warehouse, making Lestrade jump slightly. When he opened his eyes, he watched Mycroft hand the gun over to his assistant and walk to Lestrade. Something had changed in the man, and suddenly it hit Lestrade. Mycroft, for the first time in the fifteen years Lestrade had known him, was free. Free of the burden that had been his brother.
Mycroft stood suddenly still in front of him, capturing his eyes with his own.
"Gabriel, I said I would give you one chance to walk away. This is it." Mycroft took a few steps back, giving Lestrade one last look before sitting down in the car.
And then Lestrade knew what Mycroft was offering. Mycroft was offering a life with him. A life that would contain this; assassinations, murder, intrigue, vigilant killings. And he knew that if he sat down in the car, he would be tied to Mycroft until his death, natural or at the hands of Mycroft Holmes. So Gabriel Lestrade did the only thing he could.
***
The next day a new entry appeared in the little black book. It was on the last page, a closure for all of them. The blank page before it was perhaps the biggest tribute to a man like no other, a man who defied all logic, a man who could never be captured in a few words on a page between victims.
Lestrade traced the faint lines left by pens pushed too hard onto the paper before reading the last entry one more time. The book would disappear soon, and he reread the last words before leaving for home and the most dangerous man alive.
Michel Robson
Petty thief
Shot to the back of the head
Executed
Author: dweo
Words: 2673
Rating: Teen
Characters: Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock, John, Not!Anthea
Pairings: Lestrade/Mycroft
Warnings this chapter: Major Character Death
Beta: The Lovely grassle
Summary: When people say that the day he met Sherlock Holmes had to have been the most incredible day of his life, he agrees. But what Lestrade never tells them is that it had very little to do with Sherlock.
AN: Written for sherlockbigbang
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
In the end it had taken only one bullet, one single bullet.
They came running around the corner into the alleyway, the blue light of the police cars lighting up the alley, casting eerie shadows. The shot rang, making everything freeze for a moment. Lestrade felt his heart stop when he saw a figure double over before collapsing on the ground.
John had been the first to reach Sherlock, turning him over onto his back, a red stain slowly forming on Sherlock's abdomen. John frantically pressed his hands into Sherlock's stomach with force.
“Sherlock, talk to me,” he yelled out.
"It hurts." Sherlock voice was soft with pain.
"I know, just hold on. The ambulance will be here any moment. Everything will be okay." Lestrade wondered how as he watched blood blossom through John’s fingers.
"You always were a bad liar," Sherlock whispered, his hand taking one of John’s in his. The wound bled on steadily between the fingers of John's other hand. John let out a strangled laugh. "You know I’m dying." Sherlock brought John's hand to his face, holding it there for a moment, before his own hand dropped uselessly to the ground.
"You’re not dying. I can’t let you." John’s bloody hand cradled Sherlock's face, John watching as Sherlock’s whole body trembled in pain.
"I can feel my stomach acid burn my insides. Of course I’m dying." Sherlock voice wavered, and Lestrade felt his heart stop. They watched as Sherlock’s eyes slid closed, nobody wanting to speak, nobody wanting to acknowledge what was happening.
"Sherlock, keep talking. You have to stay awake." John gently tapped Sherlock's face, and Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, opening to a slit.
"Why?" He managed to sound petulant even when he was dying.
"You’ll go into shock." John’s voice was calm and collected, but Lestrade could see his body tremble.
"And why would that be a problem; are we out of blankets?" Lestrade let out a strangled laugh, which was halted abruptly by Sherlock’s next words. "I’m dying; I don’t think we have to worry about shock."
"You can’t die. You are Sherlock Holmes. We need you. I need you." John sounded suddenly desperate.
"I’ll miss you too," Sherlock said, his voice slurring. "Tell Mycroft I’m sorry." Sherlock’s eyes closed, and he would not open them again.
Lestrade immediately sprang into action, trying to block out the sobbing of the man clutching Sherlock's body to him. He walked to the figure pushed to the ground, his hand behind his back held together with flexicuffs that were just a trifle too tight, cutting into the man’s wrist.
"Get him up," he snarled. The man was pulled up, and Lestrade was on him in an instant, his hand around the man's throat like a vice.
"You are in trouble," he whispered into the man's face. He swung his fist and was caught midswing by a hand clamped around his wrist. The movement was so unexpected that he let the man go and swung around. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man slide down the wall, gasping for breath, a hand around his throat.
"I’d rather not have to use my influence to get you out of prison for police brutality." Mycroft's voice sounded amused. Lestrade looked at him and watched the smile slide from Mycroft's face.
"Sherlock," Lestrade stammered.
"Where?" Mycroft asked, his hand tightening painfully around Lestrade's wrist, but before Lestrade could reply, Mycroft let go suddenly and walked into the alley.
Lestrade stood still for a moment, regaining his composure before slowly following Mycroft. Part of him wanted to stop Mycroft and hold him, because this was going to break the man's heart.
Just as he reached the corner, Mycroft reached Sherlock's body, which was still being held by John.
Lestrade suddenly had the urge to send all the people around him away. All those gawping at the little scene before them. He couldn't have them watch what would be an extremely private moment. Mycroft knelt next to the body of his baby brother, not caring that he was destroying his expensive suit. He raised a trembling hand, and his fingers pushed the curls from Sherlock's forehead before carefully cradling his face.
Lestrade could feel Mycroft's assistant come up closely beside him. He could feel a tremble run through her body at the sight of an extremely intimate moment.
Mycroft lowered his head so that his forehead touched Sherlock's, his mouth moving, whispering. John's hand suddenly covered Mycroft's, squeezing it gently before dropping his hand again.
Mycroft slowly moved. He dropped a gentle kiss on Sherlock's forehead and stood up, squeezing John's shoulder before walking back to Lestrade.
His assistant was beside him in a flash, and a lively conversation started. She was typing everything on her BlackBerry.
After a few minutes she nodded, and Mycroft turned to Lestrade.
"I have arranged a car that will bring him to St Bart's. Molly Hooper will do the autopsy. I want a copy of all the evidence and reports you gather. If there are any developments, you will notify my PA. I have a funeral to arrange." At those words Mycroft started to walk past him. Lestrade wanted to say something, needed to say something, but as he opened his mouth, Mycroft spoke.
"Thank you." He looked straight into Lestrade’s eyes, and Lestrade knew words weren't necessary. Lestrade couldn't stop himself and squeezed the man's shoulder for a second as he walked past, and Lestrade almost thought he imagined Mycroft's hand covering his and squeezing back. The moment passed by all too quickly. Mycroft's PA smiled gently at him before both disappeared into the car.
Lestrade sighed, turned around, and started to bark out orders just to take his mind of Mycroft, Sherlock, and the end of the world as he knew it.
***
Lestrade knew the next day would be bad, and he had been right. The witness statements were bad; interviewing John had been worse.
He watched John enter, accepting condolences from everybody he encountered. His face was set hard like the soldier he was. Sarah was at his side, her eyes red-rimmed. With a jolt Lestrade realised that she had known Sherlock just as long as she had known John, and while they might not have been friends (Sherlock didn't have friends, John excepted) they both accepted and like each other well enough.
The interview was painful, but they both shook hands at the end with a smile, remembering him. He had spent the rest of the day writing until the moment that Donovan had run into his office, and he knew the day had just taken a turn for the worse
"Sir, bad news; there’s been a breakout in the holding cells, four people have escaped." Lestrade closed his eyes. He didn't have to hear what else she was going to say; he already knew.
"Robson?"
"Yep." Donovan looked apologetic
"How?" he growled
"As far as we have been able to determine, two men came in, shut down the live CCTV feed to the observation gallery, overrode the cell locks and left under the threat of guns. Luckily they didn't shut down the CCTV completely, so we caught them on film."
"Show me." He knew he sounded harsher than she deserved, but he cared about only one thing. Donovan handed him one of the evidence screens. He pushed the Play button and swiped it until he reached the right moment.
The CCTV footage showed a scared Robson being pushed by one of the masked men. It was clear they weren't there for him; that he was just an unlucky bystander. An unlucky bystander that was now out there. Free, unpunished for what he had done.
"Couldn't they have taken somebody else? I don't know, there enough minor criminals in there that deserve to be kidnapped," he said as he slammed the portable screen on the desk, not caring for the ominous scratching sound it made.
"I'm going out; call me as soon as they’ve found him." Lestrade stood up and pulled his coat from the back of his chair. He had to inform Mycroft. If somebody could find Robson it was him. What Mycroft would do with Robson was another matter, and he really didn't want to think about that right now.
He wasn't surprised when a big black car appeared out of nowhere the moment he walked out of sight of the Yard. He got in. To his surprise the car was empty: no Mycroft, no assistant. Just a silent driver.
He groaned. This wasn't good, this wasn't good at all. He steeled himself again, this time ready to grovel in front of the most powerful man in the world. Because there was no doubt in Lestrade's mind that Mycroft was going to be pissed off, and if Mycroft was pissed off, people died. And Lestrade was going to be in the direct firing line.
They arrived in one of Mycroft's gloomy empty warehouses, one he seemed to have a ready supply of.
"Gabriel." Mycroft welcomed him, his face unreadable, his voice pleasant. That alone made the hairs on Lestrade’s neck stand up.
"We need to talk," he continued as Lestrade didn't answer.
"Yeah, I was afraid you were going to say that," Lestrade replied.
"Gabriel, I'm going to give you one chance, one chance only." Mycroft suddenly sounded cold, a controlled fury in his whole body, his eyes reading Lestrade like he was an interesting specimen under his microscope.
"One chance?" Lestrade strangled out, feeling truly scared now.
"One chance to walk away. To leave this behind." His hand made a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole world. "To leave me behind," he added.
"I understand," Lestrade said, swallowing his fear down, but standing his ground. He knew he was staying. He should have protected Sherlock. It was his job after all. And he hadn't even been able to keep his killer prisoner. He would take whatever Mycroft would do to him.
"Good," Mycroft walked to the car and opened the door, waiting for Lestrade to enter.
Lestrade sat back; his eyes closed trying to keep his mind of what Mycroft would do him, to keep his mind from the little black book that might contain his name soon.
When the car stopped ten minutes later in another deserted warehouse, Lestrade was welcomed by the sight of Mycroft's assistant, no BlackBerry in her hand, but instead a sleek black gun, safety still on. Lestrade swallowed, stepping out. Mycroft silently accepted the gun. The woman talking softly in to his ear.
"Thank you." Mycroft smiled his genuine smile at her, the one he reserved only for Lestrade in the early morning just before he would leave to start another war.
Lestrade looked around. In the middle of the room was an empty chair, restraints ready. And he swallowed again. Torture and then death? He wondered to himself.
"Bring him in." Mycroft's voice broke through Lestrade's thoughts, and to his surprise, a bound, blindfolded and gagged man was brought in. A man he knew, he realised with a jolt.
Robson.
The man seemed uninjured, although his trousers were soiled. Lestrade couldn't blame him as he suddenly understood everything.
It had been Robson they had been after, after all. He should have known; the escape had Mycroft's fingerprints all over it. Then another realization hit him. Mycroft hadn't brought him here to be the victim: he was here to be a witness. Robson was pushed on the chair and tied up again, his gag removed.
"Do you know why you are here?" Mycroft asked pleasantly
"I... I…don't know," the man stammered, his blindfold slowly turning wet; he was crying.
"You are here to die," Mycroft said, the gun still at his side.
"Die?" Robson's voice broke
"Remove the blindfold. I want him to look his killer in the face." Robson looked at Mycroft, his eyes on the gun, and Lestrade saw the man turn ashen. For a moment Lestrade thought that Mycroft would scare the man to death. Then Robson looked around the room, his eyes locking on Lestrade, realisation making them wide as he recognised Lestrade.
"Please, help me,' he begged. "You're the police. You can't let him do this." There was so much desperation in his voice that Lestrade knew he should do something, because the man was right; he was a police officer, and he should stop this. But he didn't; he just stood there and watched. He had been in Mycroft's pocket for too long already to do anything else.
"He isn't going to help you. You killed his friend. You killed my bother. And I don't take it lightly when people touch what is mine." At those words Mycroft put the gun to the man's forehead. "I could just kill you like this. It would be quick."
"Or perhaps here." He pushed the gun into Robson's stomach. "Do you know it can take people fifteen minutes to die when a bullet hits their stomach? It is an extremely painful way to die. Those stomach acids, they burn. You shot Sherlock in the stomach, didn't you? Perhaps this would be a good punishment, make you feel what he felt. At least he had his best friend with him. You'll die alone." Mycroft walked away, and Lestrade wondered how he was going to torture the man more. The guy was just some petty thief that had had the bad fortune to kill the best-protected man in the world, and now he was going to pay with his life.
"Untie him," Mycroft said, standing with his back to Robson. Lestrade saw relief wash over the man, and Lestrade felt his heart sink. Mycroft wasn't going to let the man go. Torturing him wouldn't be enough revenge for Mycroft. Of that Lestrade was certain.
Robson stood looking bewildered, unsure what to do next. The choice was taken from him when he was pushed to his knees by Mycroft's assistant. Mycroft walked to him, standing behind the man.
"You don't deserve this," he said as he pushed the gun into the man's neck, forcing the man's head down. Lestrade closed his eyes, knowing what would follow. The shot rang through the empty warehouse, making Lestrade jump slightly. When he opened his eyes, he watched Mycroft hand the gun over to his assistant and walk to Lestrade. Something had changed in the man, and suddenly it hit Lestrade. Mycroft, for the first time in the fifteen years Lestrade had known him, was free. Free of the burden that had been his brother.
Mycroft stood suddenly still in front of him, capturing his eyes with his own.
"Gabriel, I said I would give you one chance to walk away. This is it." Mycroft took a few steps back, giving Lestrade one last look before sitting down in the car.
And then Lestrade knew what Mycroft was offering. Mycroft was offering a life with him. A life that would contain this; assassinations, murder, intrigue, vigilant killings. And he knew that if he sat down in the car, he would be tied to Mycroft until his death, natural or at the hands of Mycroft Holmes. So Gabriel Lestrade did the only thing he could.
***
The next day a new entry appeared in the little black book. It was on the last page, a closure for all of them. The blank page before it was perhaps the biggest tribute to a man like no other, a man who defied all logic, a man who could never be captured in a few words on a page between victims.
Lestrade traced the faint lines left by pens pushed too hard onto the paper before reading the last entry one more time. The book would disappear soon, and he reread the last words before leaving for home and the most dangerous man alive.
Michel Robson
Petty thief
Shot to the back of the head
Executed