Chapter 2

Greg Lestrade wasn't a man to believe in fate. Things happened, sometimes for no reason at all and there wasn't much he or anyone else could do about them.

It wasn't fate or grand design that made his wife have an affair. It was her being a bitch and him being too cowardly and naive to leave.

It certainly wasn't fate that his father died in a freak accident when Greg was just a kid, leaving his mother to raise four boys alone.

It must have been coincidence then that led the Holmes brothers into his life.

As he scanned the file in front of him of one Sherlock Holmes, a junkie who was found in a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, his eyes fell to the man's emergency contact.

It had been by coincidence that he was driving back from his soon-to-be-Ex-Wife's house and he saw a black sedan speed past him as he pulled out of the driveway onto the road.

He was ready to give the man a ticket and then dispatch got back to him and he was told, not so subtly, to drop the charges and let him go.

He wasn't happy about it but he did as he was told and spent the next two nights scouring the files for the man's name. All he acquired was a caffeine hangover, a sore ass and more questions than answers.

It must have been another coincidence then that when a junkie had been brought in two weeks later, for trespassing and attacking the policeman who found him, Greg recognised the unusual name and took over the case.

After he called the elder Holmes brother, he couldn't help but feel trepidation at another meeting. Deciding to walk off his nerves, he moved across the office to get a coffee and talk to Sherlock before his brother got there.

The man was almost the exact opposite of the man Greg met a few weeks before. He was tall and had dark, messy curls on his head, the bags under his eyes highlighted by his white pallor.

"Mr Holmes?"

The man didn't open his eyes and for a moment, Greg wondered if he overdosed until he noticed his stomach moving with his breathing. He moved a little closer to the man laying down and shook his head.

He hated seeing people get like this. His younger brother had gone down this same path and ended up overdosed in a gutter on Christmas Eve. It broke his mother's heart and Greg and his brothers were never quite the same; even Oscar, his eldest brother, who was a mummy's boy, even taking her last name after their father died, barely made Christmas dinner anymore.

"Mr Holmes, my name is—"

"Detective Inspector Gordon Lestrade," the voice drawled, lips barely moving. Lazily, the eyes opened and he blinked at the man standing over him.

"It's Greg…"

But Sherlock was already closing his eyes again as he rolled over onto his side to face the wall

"Do you understand why you're here?"

"Because I'm a genius and you need my help on cases. Scotland Yard are notoriously bad detectives and you could use my expertise."

All Greg could do was blink in disbelief. This kid had the nerve to tell him that he was bad at his job? He narrowed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest, trying to think of something witty to say back but he came up with nothing.

"No, you're here because we found you after you broke into a back yard and harassed a young family. We also believe you to be on several illegal substances. Genius or not, that's against the law."

"No doubt you've called my brother?" Greg scowled and nodded. "Good then you know I shouldn't talk without my counsel present."

That was that. As soon as legal help was mentioned, the conversation was over. He rolled his eyes and strode out of the cell, listening to the man laughing as the door locked behind him.

It was another half an hour before the aforementioned brother arrived and by then Greg was on his second coffee and his third doughnut. He brushed the powdered sugar from his hands as an officer brought Mycroft in.

The man looked annoyingly smug in his pristine charcoal suit with his expensive watch but there was no doubt of the worry in his eyes.

"Detective Inspector, how nice to see you again. May I speak to my brother?"

His voice was just as Greg remembered it, like silk. He sounded like he owned the world. Greg wanted to punch him in the face.

"First things first, Mr Holmes. Your brother was found—"

"Yes, I am quite aware of my brother's situation. I do hope he hasn't said anything too incriminating. Now, he would have had a piece of paper on him with some strange writing. May I see it?"

Greg knew that today would be a long day. All he wanted right now was a massive pint and someone to punch because these men, he suspected, would be the death of him.

"No, that's evidence. I'm afraid I can't just give evidence out, now can I?"

Mycroft's brow cocked and he clutched his umbrella with two hands. "Well of course. But I do need that list you see. It is a record of everything my brother has taken, something I know he won't have told you."

"Who are you?"

Greg hadn't meant to say that out loud but this man was infuriating, acting liked he owned the world. And how was there no record of him?

Mycroft's lips pursed nonchalantly and he tapped his fingers against the wooden handle.

"I'm occupy a minor position in the British Government. Now," he continued before Greg could argue, "may I see my brother?"

Greg could only oblige, a scowl creasing his face as he lead the taller man to Sherlock's cell.

It was only an hour before the Holmes brothers were leaving, much to Greg's chagrin. Sherlock hadn't stopped rattling off things as he was being released, despite his brother obviously trying to shut him up.

How the hell had he known about his wife cheating on him?

How the hell had been right when he said that Greg hadn't been laid in a month?

How the hell hadn't he punched the little punk out?

Whatever the case, Sherlock had been right when he said he was a genius.

What did that make Mycroft?

He watched Sherlock get into a cab, ignoring his brother who was obviously berating him. It only took one word, that Greg couldn't hear from his position by the smoker's area, and Mycroft was stepping back with a scowl.

The cab sped off and Mycroft got into his own black car as it sidled up to the curb. Before he knew it, Greg was stubbing out his cigarette and jumping in his car to follow him.