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Summary: When they kidnapped Lestrade to use him as a lever against Mycroft Holmes they should have expected Mycroft's reaction.  They most certainly did not expect Lestrade's.

Rating: PG-13.  Warning for torture scenes

Type: Gen, established relationship.

Word count : 5700 (!)

Note: this was not written as part of A Reliable Man, but you never know....  Thanks once again to [livejournal.com profile] elfbert  who made very sensible suggestions and got rid of plot things that were not helping.

It's easy to kidnap a man off the street if there are four of you, you work together, and you have a van.

Lestrade was walking down the Euston Road when he found that out.

His arms were grabbed, someone kicked the back of his knee so his leg collapsed and he was rolled in through the side opening door of the van. A man on each limb and he had no chance to fight back. He yelled as the van door closed but too late then.

A hand on his mouth, another pinching his nose shut and he got the message right quick.

A few seconds later and he was face down on the van floor, hands cuffed behind him, someone's weight across his legs, and a voice saying "Shut up and behave or we'll make you". He was in no position to think the voice was lying so he shut up and behaved. Better to be awake and undamaged when he had more of a chance to fight.

Thank God, he thought, that they were wearing balaclavas. That meant they cared if he saw their faces, and *that* meant this was probably not a one way ride.

He was no Sherlock Holmes, he had no idea which bits of London they were travelling through. No distinctive sounds or smells, and enough turns they were probably deliberately confusing him. He did have some idea they had crossed the river, but that was about it.

They hadn't blindfolded him so he might get a chance when he got out to see something. He'd take it if it came. Any information is useful information.

The van stopped, sound of something like a large door opening, van moved again, stopped again. He was manhandled out of the van into a largish garage-like space. Old brickwork with additions, warehouse?

He saw an unusual car out of the corner of his eye... and pretended to trip. He twisted out of their hands and fell to the ground (which hurt, doing this with your hands cuffed behind you is not recommended!) and managed to roll enough to see more of the space. A proper (as in small and old) Mini Cooper with an original registration plate (WYH324F, he must remember that) and not covered in dust, so probably driven regularly or at least recently. Nothing else of interest and he couldn't see the van's plates. Probably borrowed or stolen anyway.

They jerked him to his feet and one of them (who he'd knocked off balance as he'd gone down) said "Smart bastard eh?" and hit him a good one in the gut. He fell again, but they held onto him this time wrenching his shoulders into the bargain. "Ease up!" said the one who had told him to shut up earlier "Time enough for that later."

He wondered if that was the good news or the bad news.

Curling over his abused stomach he was shuffled into a lift and up. Lift was newer than the brickwork, so definitely refurbished.

He kept looking where he could. Probably commercial building, lift looked to be older than the warehouse-into-expensive-flats fad and was fairly basic.

Through an office building type corridor into a room with your average interrogation setup: table and a chair in front of it. He was not surprised given his method of getting here, but what an earth could they want from a Serious Crimes cop? He wasn't Gangs, he wasn't Customs, he wasn't on any fancy task force. The most he could tell them was who was going to win the Police vs Fire Brigade football series this season - it wasn't going to be the coppers, what a shower! - and he didn't think there was a fortune to be made from inside information on that.

They shoved him into the chair, and one of them stayed behind him, hand gripping his hair to keep him in place. It made Lestrade's skin crawl.

Voices outside turned into voices inside as two men came in. Thirties, reasonably fit, one blond and in tshirt and jeans, one brown haired with a rather regrettable red tie. Blondie sounded like your average London thug but RedTie was American.

What was an American doing in all this then, whatever this was? Their faces were bare, that wasn't good, not good at all.

Blondie took the lead "Right copper, you are going to be a film star, make a little video for us."

Lestrade processed that. He was a hostage? Who was the video for then?

"You are going to tell Mycroft Holmes that unless he does what we tell him to, we will send you back to him. One piece at a time"

Holy shit! His heart sped up, his fingers clenched into fists. It was something they had discussed of course, but there's a big difference between theory and reality in the shape of a knife on a table too damn close to you right now.

The man behind him fumbled and removed the cuffs as RedTie set up the camera. Three to one and the van crew still around for all he knew, no point in playing silly buggers. Go with it for now, try and get some information out. Would they give him a script or could he improvise?

The thug in the balaclava held the knife against his right little finger as the camera started rolling.


He watched the camera and its recording leave, feeling still wound up and no way to relax. That was his last hope of rescue walking out the door. Mycroft Holmes was good but he wasn't superhuman, there would be no clues as to where he'd gone. Tracking the van would be impossible given CCTV focused on footpaths not roads.

RedTie was chatting to Blondie over by the door, he strained but couldn't hear much at all and they mumbled so no lipreading. The cuffs were back on, without his jacket he was feeling the cold a little.

Blondie came back and settled against the desk. "Right, now that's out of the way, part two. You have some questions to answer copper."

Lestrade just looked at him. Waiting. Silence is always best in interviews. THe interrogator's job is to get the interviewee talking and talking without thinking. The interviewee is always better off saying nothing at all.

"Just in case you are feeling all manly and stoic...."

Something like a red hot iron punched him in the ribs and he yelped, rocking sideways, held in place by a hand in his hair and his arms looped around the chair back. Panting in shock he saw his attacker step into view, a tube in his hand. A fucking cattle prod?

"Right, now you understand... Tell us about Mycroft Holmes. Specifically about the security arrangements at his home and at his new offices."

"Oh hell" he thought. That was going to be tricky. He didn't know if he had it in him to be stoically silent given what he'd just experienced especially as that was probably just the start. And if he tried to lie or give them half truths he wouldn't keep them straight.

But there might be another way... He'd read a book ages ago about some bod with an allergy to truth drugs: they made him free associate wildly. He remembered thinking at the time that he was glad none of his interviewees had thought of doing that because it would make life bloody hard for the copper running the show.

His thinking obviously took too much time because he copped another blast.

Ah well, in for a penny in for a pound...

"Homes hardly worth it, rents are high but mortgages higher, interest rates are crap, why is there so much pigeon crap in London? Why is there so much crap in the Yard, fourteen meetings last week and none of them worth my time do you know it takes 15 minutes to get served in the canteen and they can't make custard worth a damn but insist on making spotted dick and that dick Halford has been making everyone's life miserable now he's gone off to some think tank I reckon a tank would be the perfect London cop car just drive over those plonkers parked in-"

That's when another jolt hit him! OK, they were going to do that anyway, he was on a roll!

"jolt is a drink it has heaps of caffeine but tastes like shit and back to pigeons or maybe bloody Arsenal you'd think after this many years they'd know not to spend millions on some bloody striker who couldn't hit the goal from inside the net and it's a crying shame that all the best ones have gone to Europe overpaid sissies did you see-"

He was stopped by a hand over his mouth, at least this time without pinching his nostrils too.

Blondie came forward looking thunderous.

"So, comedian eh? Well, we'll give you a bit of time to think about your routine."

He was jerked to his feet and his shirt ripped open and dragged down his arms as the cuffs came off. A push forward, a foot to his knee so he dropped down, and within a few seconds they had him almost kneeling with his hands tied to the far side of the table, the sharp table edge digging painfully into his ribs, and his knees tied apart so they were not resting on the ground. His whole weight was on that sharp table edge and it was excruciating. He tried to shift to relieve it but the ropes held him right where he was.

They said nothing, just left him like that. Until all he could focus on was the pain in his ribs.

Suddenly Blondie pulled his head back "OK smartarse. How do you like that? Now, you tell me about the security at Holme's place in St Johns Wood."

Lestrade couldn't think, the strain on his ribs and his legs was horrific. If he let his thighs relax he'd pull half a dozen muscles but had no idea how long he could keep them tensed.

He tried to speak but all that came out was a whine. Blondie greeted
that with a knuckle on the pressure point under his ear which he couldn't escape and he almost howled with the shock of it, it went right through his head.

The finger through his skull finally went away and he panted trying to cope. Blondie said nothing, just sauntered around the table and looked at him. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Letting him stew.

"You'll be there as long as I please copper, and it won't get any easier. So tell me about the security".

He could hear his breath sobbing in his throat. He felt such a wimp, but this was one of the most painful things he'd experienced. A blow is done and past, this just kept on. And he could feel his thighs straining and the groin muscles starting to pull, lines of pain signalling damage.

He was no hero. He was in his mid-forties, fit enough from squash but not hard, not at all. No TV hero running about with guns and taking a beating every episode. This hurt, it would sound mild if he told someone about it but it hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

For some reason he started up again, focusing on the words: "security is the householder's responsibility but do the buggers care of course they don't key under the mat like this was the thirties they had amazing bikes in the thirties but they had no brakes you know the record holding Brough Superior bike did 150 on the Pendine sands with no front brake balls of bloody brass the rider but brass tarnishes which is how you tell gold rings aren't I saw this pikey pulling the ring trick down the Embankment and people fell for it, one born every minute a minute is a long time when I'm 64 which isn't that far off these days but I'd like to be under the sea I did wonder about the Thames division but i get cold and wet enough as it is..."

The words helped. He could just keep thinking about what was spewing out of his mouth and not the line of white hot pain along his chest and the lesser but growing pain in his legs. Or the ropes cutting into his wrists and knees, no not those, talk! talk!

"...bugger all on telly which is a good thing hasn't been anything on since that dinosaurs thing why does everyone think Anderson is into dinosaurs anyway? Bet they make lousy eating and I've probably eaten one at that cafe in Houndsditch I swear if the meat was any older it could only be served as primordial soup, soup soup of the evening beautiful soup I've never met a walrus but I've met carpenters..."

He didn't know if the words were even audible, he wasn't trying to be understood, he just wanted to take his mind off the pain.

Another jolt with the prod, the startle more than the shock relaxed the tension in his legs and he felt something tear. A horrible "broken! broken! take the pressure off, broken!" pain but he couldn't take the pressure off and he was broken! broken!

Words, argument, agreement, maybe. He didn't care, he was not able to focus on anything but what he was saying because then he'd have to think about how much he hurt.

Suddenly his knees were released and someone pushed him up so he was standing leant over the table but no longer with all his weight on the sharp edge. The relief was so wonderful he almost moaned with delight.

He tried to get his breathing under control as they got him back into the chair, hands cuffed behind again and a couple of ropes around his legs.

RedTie produced a glass of water and held it to his lips. He thought about refusing it for a moment but who knows when he'd get more and there were plenty of ways they could get drugs into him. If he assumed it was drugged then he could be on the alert for effects.

So he drank it, and drugged or not it tasted damned good. "Okay, I can give you more later. Don't push him so much, I can't hold him back if you do."

So that's what was going on. Someone should tell them that "good cop bad cop" only works if the subject doesn't know it's happening. Rather stupid game to play on a cop then, but maybe they didn't know any other?

"Look, he'll just start up again. He'd got all the time in the world, he'll break you eventually."

Lestrade tested... "I need to piss."

"Not yet, you tell me something useful and I can take you to the bathroom". OK, no go. Conserve strength, he should play along with good cop but that needed thought and he had none.

He sat there quietly for as long as they'd let him, then the questions started again. "How does Holmes vary his routes, is it random or is it to a pattern?"

And so he started up again, taking a perverse pleasure in it. Better to be beaten up for doing something than for not doing something!

"Patterns are for knitting or so I'm told my old sergeant used to knit back in southwark you wouldn't call him on it though he would whack you into the wall then send you into the stews on night shift, shift work sucks everyone will tell you that epecially rolling shifts rolling drunk I can't remember the last time I was that pissed damn I need to piss if I do now it's all your fault fault lines in modern policing was one of the most boring presentations I ever sat through and the chair was ready for the tip sherlock's place is a tip I dunno why because he's so neat in himself but he lives in a pigsty i wonder why it is a sty and not a pen, the yanks say pen I think, I think therefore I am that was some philosopher according to Monty Python it was about the drink and I could do with a beer and-"

Blondie cursed and Lestrade suspected he was about to cop it again but RedTie put up a hand. "Leave him for now, we'll check in and report. Plenty of time to soften him up, we need him more or less in one piece at the moment."

Well that was encouraging, but for how long?

He relaxed as well as he could and tried to zone out. Not easy given the burns and bruises.

Best just work on his breathing.


There were three people crowded around one laptop at Baker St, watching the video as it streamed its chilling message into the room.

Mycroft had debated who he should tell, he didn't want a flap about this as the more people involved the more chance for a stupid and fatal mistake. He would need Sherlock and the Doctor came as part of that package. But he would not involve any of his department, because they would quite rightly take over and refuse him any say in it at all. But if he and his brother couldn't find Lestrade, the entire department would do no better.

Sherlock reached out to replay the video again.

"Watch his head. Just before he says some words he's giving that odd tic."

Mycroft paused it "Except here. But then his right index finger is moving. First letter of the word and a number?"

"That would make it... W for which, Y for you, H for help, then... three, two, four, then... a long wait and F for follow. WYH324F."

"It's a registration number." said Watson "An old one, 1960s."

Mycroft nodded, started to send a text and stopped, his face suddenly white. At the Doctor's enquiring look he said "I would normally ask the Inspector to chase it for me."

"It's a Mini Cooper, 1967, registered to one Felix Manton, registered address in Finsbury." said an irritated Sherlock from over by his own laptop "Really Mycroft you are letting emotions get in the way."

Sherlock returned to stabbing at the keyboard muttering. "Hosted in Belarus, no just proxied through there, has to be a botnet I can jump on, yes! there, alright, here's the host, now how can I get logs, alright there, now that's back through a French router, there's the other end of the tunnel, good, right! London ISP, that's most of a whole class B how have they netted it, do they bother, what does this router say, I hate appliances... "

"Aha! It was uploaded from somewhere in London, south of the river. Probably one of Brixton or Southwark exchanges or a sub station off those. Best I can do."

"We need more" said Mycroft. "And I need to know the Inspector is... alive. I will email their drop address and ask for a phone call. Be ready to track it Sherlock. May I use your number Doctor? For obvious reasons I will not give them mine".

John was not sure he wanted a bunch of finger-severing kidnappers to have his number either, but he could see Mycroft's point.

Email sent, they waited in an uncomfortable silence, broken by Sherlock's occasional bursts of keyboard activity and once by John making tea. Which nobody drank.

John's phone going off startled them all. That meant even Sherlock was showing the strain.

Number blocked, not surprising thought John as he passed it to Mycroft.

"Holmes. Your...desires are quite clear. Before I can even consider them I must speak to Inspector Lestrade. No, that is not negotiable, and I will not engage in any discussions until I have spoken to him. Very well, within half an hour."

Half an hour is a very long time when there is nothing to do but wait.

No one jumped when the phone went for a second time.


After some indeterminate time with him staring at the wall and trying to find some way to sit that didn't hurt, they came back.

RedTie put a phone on the desk, and plugged it in. Picked up the handset said "Okay, transfer it" pushed a button and put the handset down.

"Inspector? Are you there?"

"Mr Holmes?"

"Inspector, are you all right?"

"I'm a bit bashed around the edges but mostly OK. Look I'm sorry, four of them jumped me on the Euston Road and had me in a van before I knew what happened. "

"That's quite all right Inspector, you couldn't guard against that."

He realised that Mycroft was speaking more slowly than usual, and with longish pauses at the beginning of sentences. Tracing the call? He followed suit, trying to slow down without it being obvious.

"Slammed into a van and into some bloke's fixed up warehouse, I should have!"

"Calm yourself Inspector. I am negotiating with them, it is part of the agreement that you are not harmed."

"Listen, they have been asking me about you, they want to know..."

Blondie slapped a hand over his mouth and punched him in the gut. Message received, don't tell Holmes what they wanted to know.

"He'll be OK if he behaves himself." That was Blondie.

"Inspector? Let him speak."

Lestrade was panting from the shock of the punch but got his breathing mostly under control before he answered."I remember what we talked about. I know what you have to do."

Mycroft surprised him.

"It doesn't matter what we said. " A pause as though the speaker was thinking "Greg! Listen to me! Tell them what they want to know. I can contain the difficulties. I will work with them, forget what we said. "

"That's enough" said RedTie and slammed the handset back into the cradle. "Should have stopped that earlier, they were tracing it! "

"Nah" said Blondie "I have fixed that up at the exchange. They'll trace it to the general area but no further."

Lestrade's heart sank. So much for that then. Sherlock might manage to get around a block, but not for some time. Last hope gone.

"So... your poncy loverboy says to co-operate eh? You can start by telling us about the security in St John's Wood"

Lestrade Looked at him, trying to work out what was safe and what wasn't. Nothing was. He didn't have it in him to spin lies, and not give a grain of truth. He had to trust that help was coming. And that they wouldn't kill him yet.

He sat there, saying nothing.

"What, you aren't going to do what he says either? You must be right
fun in bed!"

He wanted to swear and scream and strangle the bastard. He should do another round of nonsense but instead he just looked at Blondie and said "He will kill you. If I don't do it first. Now fuck off."

He got another slam of the prod for that, and collapsed against the restraints breathing raggedly with his heart galloping and his vision blurring.


Mycroft stayed frozen in place when the call ended, Sherlock ignored everyone in favour of his laptop screen.

"Mr Holmes? " asked John rather diffidently "are you going to go along with them?"

Holmes's face was quite grim. "No Dr Watson, I will not. We.. the Inspector and I... have discussed this scenario, we agreed that I could not compromise my position in this situation. He understands that. So it is quite important that we find him. They will have asked him about my security, he won't tell them anything, he knows not to believe what I said. But we must find him before they break him. Anyone can be broken. Given time."

John Watson had once said that Mycroft didn't look very frightening. He did now. Very frightening indeed.

Sherlock erupted in frustration: "Damn! They have somehow protected the call. I can't trace it to a specific address, just a subexchange in Southwark. Union Street."

Mycroft hunched over his own keyboard. "Southwark? This Manton has a telephone account at premises in Sawyer Street which appear to be a warehouse re-furbished as office space. Which would fit something the Inspector said. Is that within your area?"

"Yes, that would fit."

"Well" said Mycroft "That seems to be the only lead we have, so we will use it. Sherlock, find a building plan please. The SAS team will need it."

Mycroft picked up his phone, dialled, and began to speak as he walked into the kitchen. "Ah hello Marcus. How are you? And Ella? Oh that's good, the cold can be so treacherous. I have a small job I need done, perhaps your people can help?"


"Face it, the prod's not working. Put him on ice. See if that makes him more amenable. We have time." That was RedTie from over behind him somewhere.

They untied him, dragged him out and along and into a small room, concrete on the floor and rather obviously no connection with any heating system.

His legs were kicked from under him, and in a few short seconds he was naked face down with his hands cuffed behind him palms out so the strain on his shoulders and wrists was phenomenal. His legs spread and tied to something, he couldn't move or roll or ease anything at all. The floor
was cold...

"Right smartarse" that was Blondie "you can hang about here for a while. Hope your heart's in good nick. Oh and have something to remember me by!"

The something was lines of fire across his legs and back as Blondie hit him with something like a length of heavy cable. He jerked and yelped with each blow, stoic be damned!

Then it got worse because Blondie threw a bucket of water over him as he left.

It didn't take long to be unsupportable. His shoulders were the only warm part of him as they burned with strain, matching the bright lines of pain in his wrists as the cuffs bit. The fire of the blows had faded to be replaced with a deep ache. He was shivering as the evaporating water chilled him and the cold floor leached any warmth that was left.

Then his legs started cramping.

It felt like his muscles were tearing loose as the ropes held his legs straight, he heard himself give a stuttering whine that just went on and on.

He wished he could pass out, didn't people with hypothermia feel all relaxed and happy? Not happening. He was cold and everything hurt with that horrible broken! broken! pain. His breath sobbed in and out, each breath drawing in more cold air.

Distraction, keep it together, the more you think the more it hurts...

"Once two is two. Two twos are four. Three twos are six. Four twos are eight."

He kept going, he'd always loved the six times for some reason, the pleasing symmetry of the even numbers. There was something about six followed by the anarchy of seven. He stumbled over the nine times as he'd always done, got through the tonguetwisting of twelve. He tried to continue with thirteen but that needed arithmetic and it wasn't happening.

So he started again.


They congregated a short distance from the target. Five tough looking bastards in what looks like military kit trying to look civilian and three civilians trying to look like they weren't really with the tough bods form a group that is rather obvious. Here's hoping no one was keeping a lookout.

"I realise it makes it more difficult Captain, but it is important that we keep as many of them alive as possible. They hold a hostage and it isn't certain this is where he is. Besides, I will need to... obtain information."

Sherlock materialised (no one had noticed him leave except the Doctor and he'd kept quiet) to say he'd picked the locks front and back and were they going to stand there all day?

It took far too long to find Lestrade, tucked into a horrible bare room off a small corridor. Mycroft was absolutely frantic by they time they did, umbrella tapping and his voice more and more sarcastic and he'd even loosened his tie.

It was John who found him, calling out "Jesus! In here!" which brought Mycroft at the closest to a run anyone had ever seen. He dropped to his knees beside the blue whimpering figure on the floor then snapped "Get those damn cuffs off!"

John fetched Sherlock from a room where he was investigating a computer setup, he had the locks open in seconds.

John held Lestrade's arms where they were, meeting Mycroft's startled and affronted gaze. "They'll hurt badly when they move. Be prepared. We have to warm him up, and that will hurt too."

But what hurt more was that he didn't recognise them. As they released him he gave a rasping howl of pain but his eyes didn't focus and a stream of almost inaudible nonsense spewed from his lips.

Mycroft Holmes sat on the floor and gathered Lestrade into his arms wrapping his greatcoat around them both, hugging the man into his own warmth.

"You are safe now Inspector, it is all right you are safe now. It is all right, we are here, you are safe now. "

The horrible rambling stopped as Lestrade's eyes finally focused.

"I didn't.... Didn't..."

"I know Inspector, you never would."

"We have to get him to a warmer room" that was the Doctor, bending down to help Mycroft get the bruised and shivering wreck up off the floor. Trying (and mostly failing) to avoid the bruises and burns on ribs and legs and back they carried him to an nearby carpeted office and set the heating as high as it would go.

There they set him on the floor, with a jacketless Mycroft wrapped instantly around him, both covered in Mycroft's greatcoat. Lestrade tried not to make a sound as Mycroft settled his hold unable to avoid hurting Lestrade as he did so.

John disappeared for a few moments, returning with a steaming mug and a curtain. He wrapped the cloth around where the coat didn't reach and gave Mycroft the mug,

"Give him that, slowly. It will help him warm up. Give him these when he's had a few sips of the water."

Gradually Lestrade's colour returned as he relaxed into the warmth, burrowing into into the arms around him.

The SAS commander popped his head into the room ignoring the sight with admirable discipline. "Mr Holmes Sir? Looks like they are all hired muscle, some locals and one American who probably works for one of the American mercenary outfits like Xe. I don't think he's CIA but you might want to confirm that."

"Thank you Captain. I'll follow that up. Meanwhile please arrange for them all to be taken to the secure facility. At some point I will wish to... talk to them."

Sherlock appeared again to say "They've got some nice malware on their computers, quite elegant. Also quite a lot of correspondence with all sorts of interesting people in Russia and India."

"Thank you Sherlock. File the encryption keys in the usual place. Please don't release any of your variations of their software onto the internet, it really does make things difficult when you do that."

Lestrade was still shivering and everything still hurt. But he didn't mind. He was happy where he was....

Then the Doctor spoke up after inspecting the mess the cuffs had made of his wrists, one arm out from the enveloping warmth at a time. "We should get him to hospital, get him looked over."

Mycroft shook his head "No, he will do perfectly well at home. Please do accompany us Doctor, Sherlock will assist me in carrying the Inspector."

"No!" said Lestrade, attempting to struggle up from Mycroft's embrace without much success as abused cramping muscles made themselves felt and his big clumsy feet were on fire with pins and needles. "I will walk out of here on my own two feet!"

"Of course Inspector. Forgive me. We will wait until you are able to walk."

Wrapped in Mycroft's coat, he made it down to the garage and into the car.

Under his own steam.



Much later he was drowsing in bed, warm and sleepy from shower and painkillers and hot food. He was wrapped around Mycroft Holmes, his head on Mycroft's chest and Mycroft's arm strong and warm and comforting wrapped around him in turn.

"Do I want to know how close it was?" he said drowsily.

"Too close as far as I am concerned. It took too long to get the assault team in place. "

"I nearly gave up hope when they said the trace was blocked. I couldn't lead them on like you wanted, I was just too out of it."

Mycroft kept himself from tensing by sheer effort of will.

"I just wanted you to know that I was going to do as we had decided. That I couldn't negotiate but that I would do everything I could to find you."

"I realised in the middle of the call... we had talked about it, but we hadn't set up a code. I didn't know what you were thinking, I was almost scared you would give in... But you called me Greg and I knew."

"It's all over. We wouldn't have found you without that registration number, not in time. You did everything right. I knew you would understand my message. Go to sleep, it's all over."

Mycroft stroked his arm and back, gentling him to sleep.

He knew his Inspector was smart enough to realise what the name had meant. After all, he only called him Greg in certain specific circumstances...

He leant forward and kissed the sleeping head "Goodnight Greg."


Date: 2010-10-17 11:56 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] rabidsamfan.livejournal.com
Oooh, this was really exciting!


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