For the Record

John exited 221B and heaved a tired sigh, running a hand through his short blonde hair. Sherlock appeared to be on the mend finally... Thank goodness. The flu this year had been particularly wide-spread, and the cold weather combined with his flatmate's typical disregard for 'transport' had all but guaranteed he would come down with it. Mrs. Hudson had been amazingly tolerant and helpful with the man, but if Lestrade hadn't volunteered to come by and entertain the despairing detective with cold cases John suspected she might have started throwing things herself.

The doctor looked up, hoping for a cab, only to find himself facing one. He scowled. While an ordinary cab would have been appreciated, this had all the earmarks of Mycroft's intervention. No help for it, though - John wasn't in the mood to run a security team ragged at the moment. Better to tolerate it now. It meant he'd be on his way faster.

Scowl still firmly in place, John slipped into the back seat. A quick glance across from him left him taken aback. "Lestrade? What are you doing here?"

Lestrade frowned slightly. "I was approached across from Scotland Yard and basically told to get in." He didn't look pleased. "Given that I was outnumbered at the time and there seemed no way to avoid it..."

John huffed. "Yeah. You'd think they'd be more considerate." He glared toward the driver and was ignored. "Any idea why?"

"Something about Sherlock."

"He'd better not have a case for him," John muttered darkly.

"Who have a case for what?" Lestrade repeated blankly. "What does that have to do with a kidnapping?"

The doctor suddenly had the distinct feeling they were having two separate conversations. "What kidnapping?"

"What k- Ours, for goodness sake! What does that have to do with a case?"

John stared for a moment. "Mycroft?" he suggested.

"Who?"

Before John could get to the bottom of the matter, the cab smoothly pulled into an alleyway and parked next to a door, which was somewhat pointedly held open by another non-descript henchman.

"Time to get some answers," the doctor muttered, opening the door. "You coming?"

Both men entered the warehouse (empty as usual; Mycroft must have a special division devoted to keeping track of which ones weren't in use at the moment) to find the man standing with typical drama in the center, with umbrella in hand. Ignoring the attempted intimidation, John strode straight up to him. "What's all this about?" he demanded. "I have a shopping list and a flatmate to be getting back to."

"I'm terribly sorry to inconvenience you, Doctor Watson," Mycroft replied smoothly in a tone that could have meant anything. "You as well, Inspector Lestrade. I simply have the need for information, and this was the first time I could catch the two of you alone."

Maybe he should get a dog - preferably something large and unfriendly. Walking with that should ensure he wasn't found 'alone.' "And what exactly do you mean by information?"

"Sherlock," the man replied - rather obviously. "How is he?"

"Why?" Lestrade asked abruptly. John turned to look at him - the man was tense, face set. He was looking suspiciously at Mycroft. "Why should he concern you?"

"I'm merely concerned for his health," the wider man clarified calmly, though the furrow of his brow indicated he was contracting a headache of his own.

John rolled his eyes. "Better, probably back in action in days. Why?"

"I worry about him -"

"Constantly, I know, we've been through this," John interrupted impatiently. "Why now?"

"And who wants to know?" Lestrade asked suspiciously.

The doctor stopped short and turned to stare at him. "You don't know who he is?"

"Other than the man who lured me to the middle of nowhere at night and tried to bribe an officer for information about a colleague, no."

"What I wish to know," Mycroft interjected, attempting to get matters back on track, "is if his... relapse is prone to reoccur."

"Relapse?" It was Lestrade again.

The man shifted, looking uncomfortable for a moment before it disappeared as if the expression never was. "There was a hand delivery," he began slowly, as if they were unintelligent, "Of filled syringes, to your flat, before his illness..."

For a moment John didn't understand - then he did and his temper flared. "You thought Sherlock was back on drugs?!"

For the first time Mycroft looked taken aback. "He wasn't?"

"Who is this?" Lestrade demanded, apparently fed up with the situation.

Jaw tight, John glanced at him and back at Mycroft. "Mycroft Holmes, meddling and overly-influential older brother of Sherlock's - who apparently can't do his research, and realize I was giving immunizations to Sherlock's Homeless Network." The object of his ire looked startled, and the doctor continued pointedly, "I would have given one to Sherlock as well, except that he refused it; claimed it was unnecessary."

Finally looking like he knew what was going on, Lestrade spoke. "So you're his brother. Sherlock mentioned you once, when he was still taking. Seemed to think you had no interest in his habits one way or the other, at that point."

Mycroft stared at them for a second, then looked away. "It would seem I have miscalculated," he murmured.

"We're not the ones you owe an apology," John grumbled, but decided after a look at Mycroft's face that further scolding was unnecessary. The man looked uncomfortable enough as it was. "Are we done? Right, then." Without further comment, he executed a crisp about-face and strode toward the door.

The two men remaining stood in awkward silence for a moment before Lestrade cleared his throat. "You know, had you simply introduced yourself as his brother, I might have been more likely to help. This sort of approach all but guarantees most people won't listen."

"You'd be surprised," Mycroft replied quietly. "Many people accept an offer of funds, regardless of occupation." Standing up straight, all indicators of emotion gone from his features, he nodded toward the door. "The car will take you to whatever destination you require."

It was clear the conversation was over. Lestrade turned and followed John out the door.

Back in the car Lestrade turned to John, who, while still irritated, looked more cheerful than he had during the outward journey. "That was..." He trailed off, unable to describe the strangeness of the situation.

"A Holmes," John finished dryly, "I think the word you're looking for is 'irritating.'" He frowned. "He was off his game today, though. I don't know that I've ever seen him deduce so poorly. In fact..." he trailed off.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's coming down with the flu..."