Chapter Text
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the arched stained-glass window of the Whitehall office, casting a pale, solitary beam of golden light onto the expensive woven carpet. Anthea stood quietly in the corner of the room; the BlackBerry in her hand gave a brief, subtle vibrate, but her fingers did not glide across it with her usual breakneck speed. Her eyes, hidden behind long lashes and a mask of frozen professional detachment, were fixed intently on the back of the most powerful man in the British government.
Mr. Holmes.
People said he held the lifeblood of this empire, people said he was the embodiment of supremacy, and people also said he was a flawless mechanical mind untouched by mortal dust. But Anthea, who had accompanied him through countless closed-door meetings and underground intelligence operations, knew that Mr. Holmes was the first to realize that the relationship between himself and an inspector from Scotland Yard was anything but ordinary.
Actually, to be more precise, Anthea was the first to discover it.
Everyone knew Mr. Holmes had a list of things he detested. That list was so long it could be summed up in a single phrase: the entirety of humanity. He disliked those who lacked intelligence, he despised rudeness, and he scorned those who let emotion override logic. To Mr. Holmes, most of the people walking the streets of London were merely lower primates, or in his preferred metaphor, goldfish swimming aimlessly in a cramped glass bowl of ignorance.
But Inspector Gregory Lestrade seemed to be the notable exception to that list.
Anthea did not mean the inspector wasn't human. On the contrary, he was all too human. In a world full of schemers, deceitful politicians, and cold-blooded assassins, Lestrade was like a luminous saint. He possessed an aura of integrity, a strangely profound patience and tolerance for Mr. Holmes's wayward younger brother, and a heart so pure it seemed almost out of place in this city of fog and crime.
Anthea clicked her tongue softly, her finger gliding lightly across the secure screen to open the attached electronic file. On the screen was an image of Gregory Lestrade in motorcycle leathers, his salt-and-pepper hair slightly windswept, wearing a radiant smile that was tired yet brimming with life after a long night shift. He was an attractive man, charming in the most raw, authentic way, though he himself was completely unaware of it. He did not try to be alluring; he was simply himself.
When Mr. Holmes had asked her to compile a list of individuals in close contact with Sherlock Holmes for "risk management" purposes, Anthea had spent a full ten minutes deliberating. She knew very well that Lestrade’s regard for Sherlock was entirely born of genuine care, free of any exploitation, self-interest, or malice. He protected that eccentric, genius man-child with the instinct of a law enforcer and the heart of an older brother. Precisely because of that absolute "safety," and perhaps out of a small, private whim of a loyal assistant, Anthea had deliberately chosen Lestrade’s most captivating photograph to place right on the first page of the report. She wanted to see how that cold, genius mind would react to such a "luminous saint."
According to all the confidential medical records Anthea had ever accessed, her boss was an asexual man. Every emotion of his was characterized by coldness, intimidation, or an absolute lack of expression. He operated with the efficiency of a Swiss watch, unswayed by any physical or spiritual desire.
Reality had proven this countless times. Throughout her years working for Mr. Holmes, Anthea had witnessed numerous sudden night ambushes. There were nights when political enemies sent top-tier assassins, or even when ambitious cabinet members deliberately sent operatives to approach him in flimsy silk dresses or perfectly tailored suits. They wanted to seduce him to extract information, to find a breach in Mr. Holmes's fortified wall of defense.
Oh, what a petty tactic.
While it was a fairly successful trick in the world of international intelligence, where honey traps often succeeded, they forgot one thing: they were up against Mr. Holmes. The results of those attempts were always a miserable failure, regardless of whether the seducer was a captivating man or woman. Mr. Holmes could read a report while ordering security to drag a beauty who had deliberately fallen into his lap out to solitary confinement without blinking an eye. Those primates evoked not a shred of emotion in him, and sentiment, to him, was an impurity not permitted to exist in logic. He only displayed slight emotional fluctuations when dealing with family matters, specifically the troublesome younger brother on Baker Street. Otherwise, he was entirely an ice god.
Having followed Mr. Holmes for many years and survived countless battles of wits on the political chessboard, Anthea had earned his absolute trust. She was uniquely permitted to remain in his office during the most sensitive moments, allowed to witness the smallest reactions and things that almost the entirety of humanity would never see.
And the firm assertion she had once read in her boss's psychological evaluation report that Mr. Holmes was completely asexual began to shake violently that very afternoon.
Mr. Holmes sat behind the black oak desk, leaning slightly back against his chair. Anthea stepped forward, placing the requested file onto the desk surface. Right at the very top, like a deliberate arrangement full of hidden meaning, was the page printed with Gregory Lestrade's picture alongside his summary resume.
"The documents you requested, Sir," Anthea said, her voice completely even and devoid of any ripples.
Mr. Holmes nodded slightly, his long, smooth fingers turning open the first page.
Anthea took a step back, her eyes directed toward her phone, but the corners of her vision locked onto her boss's every movement. She began to count silently in her head.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
Normally, Mr. Holmes could read a page in just two to three seconds. His scanning ability was superlative; he did not read word by word but captured the entire structure of the text into his three-dimensional brain. If it were an extremely vital document concerning national security or military movements in the Middle East, he would read it in ten seconds, cross-checking every number and every comma to ensure there were no errors whatsoever.
But this time, the document consisted of only a single page. On it, the image of the inspector occupied more than fifty percent of the display area.
Ten seconds passed. Mr. Holmes still had not turned the page.
Thirty seconds. The room was so quiet that the distant ticking of the clock could be heard.
One minute. Mr. Holmes's finger resting on the edge of the paper did not move at all. His grey-blue eyes were glued to the photo of the man in leathers beside the high-capacity motorcycle.
Two minutes. Anthea felt her heart skip a beat. She stood straight, maintaining the posture of a statue, but inside, a cataclysmic shock wave was rippling through her.
Three minutes. For exactly three minutes and twelve seconds, Mr. Holmes stared at that single sheet of paper. It was a highly unusual occurrence, an unprecedented anomaly in all of Mr. Holmes's working history known to Anthea. What was he searching for in that photo? A sign of danger? Or was he trapped in an emotion that he himself could not yet define?
Anthea watched stealthily, trying to catch a facial twitch, a frown, or a look of confusion. But Mr. Holmes's face remained as still as a placid lake, completely devoid of expression. He was terrifyingly adept at isolating his emotions. After those strange three minutes ended, he merely turned the subsequent pages quietly, his fingers gliding continuously without pause, as if trying to make up for the time that had just been "stolen."
He closed the file and placed it on the desk. He did not sign off on it, nor did he give any orders; he simply steeped his fingers under his chin, falling into a long, pensive silence. His gaze drifted out the window, where the sunset was falling, painting the rooftops of London red. That lull lasted for five minutes before he picked up his pen and continued his work as if nothing had ever happened.
Anthea knew Mr. Holmes would not let this matter rest. A variable appearing in Sherlock Holmes's life needed to be controlled or at least, that was the excuse Mr. Holmes gave himself to legitimize his subsequent actions.
A few days later, the plan was executed.
The poor Scotland Yard Inspector, Gregory Lestrade, had absolutely no idea he had fallen into the crosshairs of a supreme entity. Late one evening after leaving his office, Lestrade was "kidnapped" by Mr. Holmes's men in an impeccably professional manner. He was bundled into a luxurious black car with tightly drawn curtains, and the destination was an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, perfectly staged to look like a hostage-taking by an underworld criminal organization.
Mr. Holmes materialized from the shadows, his long coat billowing slightly, his umbrella tapping a steady rhythm on the damp concrete floor. Using the guise of an anonymous figure, he issued threats of extortion, forcing Lestrade to betray Sherlock and provide classified information about the cases his younger brother was interfering with, lest his career and his very life be destroyed. It was a test of loyalty, and a highly tense, intimidating performance.
But that plan failed completely.
Not because Mr. Holmes's men made a slip-up, but because Gregory Lestrade was simply too steadfast. Confronted with the threat of an invisible power so suffocatingly potent, the inspector though his hands trembled slightly from tension still looked directly into the darkness and flatly refused. He would rather lose his job, rather face danger, than sell out Mr. Holmes's eccentric, genius younger brother.
Standing behind a screen observing the entire process, Anthea saw Mr. Holmes step out of the kidnapping site. His face remained cold, but a very strange light flickered in his eyes. The intimidation act had been a miserable failure; Mr. Holmes did not get what he ostensibly wanted, but he had obtained his answer.
Stepping into the car to return to Westminster, Mr. Holmes leaned his back slightly against the seat, his eyes half-closed.
"Anthea," he called, his deep voice echoing in the quiet space of the vehicle.
"Yes, Sir?"
"Cancel all outer-perimeter surveillance on Inspector Lestrade. In its place, establish a level-one protection detail. If anyone so much as touches him, I want to know twelve hours in advance."
"Understood, sir."
Anthea bowed her head, her fingers swiftly typing the command into her BlackBerry. She permitted herself a small smile.
The days that followed were, for Anthea, like witnessing the most perfectly programmed machine in the world suddenly develop sweet lines of error code. Mr. Holmes began to engage in highly unusual behaviors actions that, if proposed a year ago, would have earned the proposer a look normally reserved for a foolish prehistoric creature.
He began to appear at crime scenes.
Whenever Sherlock Holmes stirred up a new bout of chaos and dragged the good-natured inspector into the fray, Mr. Holmes's luxury black car would quietly park in a nearby hidden corner. The official explanation provided was entirely logical and stamped with high-level security: He needed to be present to keep watch so his wayward younger brother wouldn't harass the London police, and to pull him out of jail in a timely manner before he caused an uproar.
But Anthea understood perfectly well how ridiculous that excuse was. Mr. Holmes's gaze through the car window lowered by a quarter was never actually directed at Sherlock. The target of that focal point was always someone else.
Every single time, Sherlock would make a scene. The eccentric, genius younger brother would storm over to the front of the vehicle, slam both hands furiously onto the hood, and shout that he hated being tailed, hated being controlled, and didn't want Mr. Holmes interfering in his life. The two Holmes brothers always ended up in a fiery argument and parted ways in a thoroughly unpleasant atmosphere. Sherlock would storm off in a rage, while Mr. Holmes would coldly roll up the window and order the driver to move out.
Yet, Anthea had discovered a secret. Following those "discordant" encounters, Mr. Holmes's mood was noticeably better than usual. If one had to find a point of difference, it was that his gaze toward the foolish officials at the office lost a few degrees of frost, and his venomous remarks softened just a fraction. He no longer used words that butchered the self-esteem of ministers to the point where they wanted to resign on the spot. A subtle, invisible harmony had crept into his mind, and the source of it, without a doubt, was the silhouette of the man in the coat standing awkwardly to protect Sherlock in the background.
Time passed quietly to the undercurrent beats of London. Mr. Holmes was consumed by lengthy business trips to allied nations and summit meetings that stretched from dawn until midnight. Yet even within those packed schedules, calculated down to the second, Anthea still found anomalous gaps.
Those were the late afternoons when the car carrying Mr. Holmes back from the military airport to Whitehall accidentally drove past a street cordoned off by yellow police tape. Mr. Holmes would order the car to stop. For just one or two minutes, he would sit silently in the vehicle, his eyes directed toward Inspector Lestrade's crime scene from afar.
Gradually, the frequency of those "accidental drive-bys" increased, and the duration of the stops grew longer. Mr. Holmes began to step out of the car. He would stand by the curb, leaning on his umbrella, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He never smoked in the office; he always prided himself on his absolute self-control, but on those London street corners, where a certain inspector was busy taking notes, Mr. Holmes would leisurely stretch out his smoking time. He stood there, amidst the delicate white smoke, letting his gaze lock firmly onto the bustling, salt-and-pepper figure.
Until one day, a crisis occurred at the Baker Street apartment. Sherlock Holmes was hospitalized due to an overdose a crisis that very nearly claimed the life of the Holmes child.
The hallway of St. Bart's Hospital that night was freezing and pungent with the smell of antiseptics. Mr. Holmes stood rigid against the wall, his face ashen, his lips pressed tightly into a straight line, his entire body radiating an aura of dark pressure so intense that not a single doctor dared approach to report the situation. He was locking his emotions tightly inside an iron box, using extreme coldness to mask the panic of an older brother.
It was precisely then that Gregory Lestrade appeared. He ran over, his breath coming in pants, his clothes disheveled from having just left his shift. Seeing Mr. Holmes standing like an ice statue on the verge of shattering, Lestrade did not show a hint of timidity. He stepped forward, and to Anthea’s utter astonishment, he touched him.
Everyone knew Mr. Holmes suffered from a severe germaphobia and intensely hated physical contact. He feared germs, feared human touch. Aside from mandatory diplomatic handshakes or the superficial cheek-kisses for ladies at major royal events, Mr. Holmes absolutely did not permit anyone to touch him. Even when bundled in clothes from head to toe, if someone accidentally brushed against him, he always showed revulsion and recoiled coldly at once.
But Lestrade was different. The inspector stepped up, as natural as breathing, and gave Mr. Holmes's shoulder a firm pat. Then, as if sensing the latent tremor beneath the expensive wool coat, he extended his rough hand and firmly gripped Mr. Holmes's clenched fist. Not stopping there, he sat down on the waiting chair nearby, reached out to squeeze his knee gently, and said in his deep, warm voice: "He's going to be fine, Mr. Holmes. I know the lad, he's got a lot of lives. Sit down."
Anthea held her breath, her fingers freezing over her BlackBerry keyboard, mentally preparing herself for a furious outburst from her boss. Mr. Holmes would undoubtedly fling his hand away, and would use the most brutal words to humiliate the rudeness of this policeman.
But no. There was no reaction of revulsion whatsoever. There was not a single action of evasion or stepping back from Mr. Holmes. He stood perfectly still, letting Lestrade's hand hold his, letting that gentle squeeze on his knee transmit a sliver of the human world's warmth into his body. His grey-blue eyes flickered slightly, looking down at the man who was worrying for his family with a gaze so soft that Anthea had never seen it before in her life. The iron box locking away his emotions had, in some miraculous way, been opened by a key named Gregory Lestrade.
Since that night at the hospital, their relationship had turned to a new chapter, even though both stubbornly maintained their professional facade.
Whenever Inspector Lestrade spotted the familiar black car or Mr. Holmes's tall silhouette near a crime scene, the usually stern detective inspector immediately changed his demeanor. Like a cheerful dog suddenly catching the scent of its master, he would instantly hand over tasks to his subordinates and jog over.
They stood talking to each other at a moderate distance, far enough so the police crowd could not overhear, and turned their backs to Anthea, making it impossible for her to lip-read. Anthea could only observe their body movements.
Most of the time, it was the inspector talking and Mr. Holmes listening. Mr. Holmes was naturally an extremely impatient person; he hated listening to boring stories or complaints about the daily life of ordinary people. Yet in front of Lestrade, he stood silently, resting his black umbrella on the ground, his head tilting slightly forward to take in every single word of his. The inspector told cheerful stories from the station, humorous troubles with Sherlock, or even complained about the bloody London weather things that Mr. Holmes would normally categorize as "informational waste." Yet he listened intently, only responding with one or two brief remarks now and then, the corner of his lips occasionally twitching upward into a near-invisible curve.
"Hello, Anthea."
After concluding their private conversation, Inspector Lestrade would turn around, retracting his relaxed smile to return to his habitual professional attitude. He nodded politely to the assistant.
And before walking away, his brown eyes, always brimming with warmth, would direct toward Mr. Holmes as he said softly: "Mr. Holmes, I must get back to work."
"Safe travels, Inspector," Mr. Holmes replied, his voice deep but completely devoid of any coldness.
He departed. Mr. Holmes stood there, leaning on his umbrella, his eyes tracking the inspector's back until he reached his subordinates and began loudly directing the scene. Only then did he slowly turn around and get into the car. The car door closed, and he picked up the report for his next meeting to read, but Anthea swore he flipped the page upside down twice before actually focusing on state affairs.
Four years passed. Four years of brief encounters on street corners, of countless glances from afar, and of secrets carefully hidden under the guise of national security. It took a full four years for Mr. Holmes to officially extend an invitation.
They began having dinner and drinks together. Fixed at a frequency of once a month.
The locations were always discreet, quiet restaurants personally booked in advance by Anthea. Ostensibly, the purpose of these meetings was to "discuss matters regarding Sherlock Holmes." They needed to exchange notes on his younger brother's behavior, the dangers surrounding him, and how Scotland Yard cooperated with the government to protect him.
Anthea quickly noticed an invariable pattern in her schedule. Every time after a conversation with the inspector, Mr. Holmes's mood improved dramatically. He would return to the office with a relaxed demeanor, handling political dispatches with extraordinary speed and tolerance.
Conversely, the times an appointment was canceled whether because Lestrade was caught up in a sudden murder case or Mr. Holmes had to receive a head of state the office would turn into a minefield that day. Mr. Holmes would be no different from a time bomb, his entire body radiating a freezing aura that made people tremble. That day was guaranteed to be a day of extreme tension for the entire government apparatus under his command, and those poor souls who accidentally made a mistake in their work on such days always met with thoroughly disastrous consequences afterward. He would use his power to penalize them in the most subtle and ruthless ways, purely to vent his frustration over a dinner appointment that did not take place.
Just like that, they maintained this strange cycle, until a major variable appeared.
Dr. John Watson moved into Baker Street.
The arrival of John Watson completely changed the dynamic. Sherlock now had a companion, an official and loyal "babysitter" ready to plunge into life-and-death situations with him. The excuse of "discussing matters regarding Sherlock" for Mr. Holmes and Inspector Lestrade to meet monthly suddenly became shaky and lost its legitimacy. Sherlock was no longer the lonely child who needed two powerful men of the government and the law to secretly confer in order to protect him.
The two of them finally had to scrap the monthly dates under the guise of talking about Sherlock. But, did they stop meeting?
No. Absolutely not.
They shifted from "talking about Sherlock" to "meeting for work."
The messages and schedules were sent out under highly serious titles: Discussion on Cooperation between the Intelligence Bureau and the Police, or Security Risk Assessment.
Sitting in the back seat of the black car, Anthea looked at the digital schedule in her hand and smiled to herself. In reality, there was absolutely no shared work between a supreme executive of the government and an inspector of the London police department that required them to meet privately that much. As the keeper of the entire schedule who knew every detail of Mr. Holmes's work, Anthea knew perfectly well that the thick files he brought along to the appointments were merely scrap paper printed out just for show.
They still met, still sat opposite each other in the VIP rooms of quaint coffee shops, using the excuse of "diplomatic work" to conceal a truth that all of London could see except for the two of them.
oOo
The typical London downpour had just ceased, leaving behind shimmering puddles that reflected the pale yellow glow of the streetlamps. The night air was damp and biting. In front of the French restaurant where their "work meeting" had just concluded, Mr. Holmes’s glossy black Jaguar was already waiting by the curb, its engine purring as softly as a nocturnal predator.
Anthea stood leaning against the chassis, BlackBerry in hand, but her entire attention was riveted on the two figures standing beneath the awning a few meters away. They were preparing to part ways, yet the conversation seemed obstinately refused to reach an end.
Mr. Holmes stood rigidly straight, one hand gripping the handle of his black umbrella. Opposite him, Inspector Lestrade stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his foot tapping lightly, his thick brows knitted into a deep furrow.
"Mycroft, you need to rest more. I know your work is incredibly important the whole bloody country is resting on your shoulders but you really don't look well right now."
Lestrade’s voice was deep and husky, carrying the exhaustion of his own long day, yet the anxiety laced within it was so clear that Anthea could catch every single syllable.
Mr. Holmes did not move a muscle, his face under the streetlamp looking as though it were sculpted from a block of emotionless marble. He replied in his usual flat, chilling cadence:
"Thank you for your concern, Inspector. But I assure you, my work carries a level of priority that far exceeds standard theories of biological health. It is of paramount importance."
Lestrade let out a loud, sharp click of his tongue, vocalizing his utter frustration. He sighed, stepping forward to close the distance between them to a bare minimum a threshold that would normally cause Mr. Holmes to instantly recoil to protect his personal space.
"Hey, it's Greg. How many times have I told you?" Lestrade cocked his chin, his brown eyes flashing with a stubborn glint. "If you won't call me Greg, then from now on, I'm calling you Myc."
From her vantage point, Anthea almost let slip a chuckle. She clearly saw the muscles in Mr. Holmes's face twitch, a flash of horror and revulsion crossing his grey-blue eyes at that "audacious" threat. To him, having his name butchered into such a crude, single-syllable moniker was nothing short of an insult.
"Do not abbreviate my name, Gregory," Mr. Holmes ground out, the name "Gregory" rolling out of his mouth sounding more like a resentful reproach than a stern warning.
"Alright, alright, Mycroft," Lestrade surrendered half-heartedly. He took a definitive step closer, reaching out to grasp Mr. Holmes's forearm.
They stood so close that their breath mingled into thin plumes of mist in the night air. The inspector’s hand gently squeezed the fabric of Mr. Holmes’s sleeve with genuine worry. He bit his lip, his gaze scanning the face before him as if trying to log every single flaw.
"But you have to take care of yourself, Mycroft. Look in the mirror you've got dark circles under your eyes, and your skin is much paler than it was last month. You've lost weight, too. Just look at your cheekbones."
Before Mr. Holmes could even formulate a reaction, Lestrade’s rough, calloused thumb reached up, gently pressing against the high, gaunt cheekbone of the British Government.
It was an action so bold it bordered on madness. Anthea held her breath, her fingers freezing entirely over her phone screen. Touching Mycroft Holmes? Pressing his face? His enemies wouldn't dare dream of such a blatant "physical assault" in their wildest nightmares.
Mr. Holmes frowned instantly, a profound scowl that signaled intense resistance. He tilted his head away from the inspector's finger, his gaze dropping into a cold, guarded stare directed straight at the man in front of him. The two of them stood frozen like that, gazing intensely into each other's eyes for what felt like an eternity. On one side was the steadfast, warm stubbornness of the inspector; on the other was the icy, haughty pride of the British Government.
Ultimately, Mr. Holmes was the first to back down. He broke eye contact, using his leather-gloved hand to smooth down the crease on his sleeve where Lestrade had just held him a habitual gesture to re-establish his defensive wall. He cleared his throat, deciding to offer a tactical diversionary compromise:
"I shall be perfectly fine, Inspector. Conversely, I observe that you have once again failed in your endeavor to quit smoking, Gregory. The scent of nicotine on your collar betrays you within a two-meter radius."
Lestrade immediately dropped his hands, wiping one firmly across his own face, throwing Mr. Holmes a thoroughly accusatory look.
"Why do you have to bring up my misery right now? I managed to hold out for three whole weeks!"
"You are an adult, Inspector. Behavioral self-control and substance regulation are elementary skills," Mr. Holmes replied indifferently, the tip of his black umbrella twisting slightly against the damp pavement.
"We are exactly the same, so don't you dare lecture me," Lestrade huffed, crossing his arms over his chest once more.
"I entirely disagree with that assessment," Mr. Holmes countered immediately. "I possess the full capacity and resources to rest and care for myself whenever I so choose. You, however, Gregory, are struggling severely with your addiction, and based on psychological indicators, you are highly susceptible to succumbing to temptation within the next forty-eight hours."
Lestrade narrowed his eyes at him, the corner of his lips twitching into an knowing smile as he unearthed the core of his companion's stubbornness.
"Do you find it that difficult to accept that you're actually not all that brilliant at taking care of yourself, Myc?"
"Do not deliberately aggravate me with that distasteful nickname in response to your entirely fallacious claim," Mr. Holmes retorted instantly, his eyebrows arching in a threatening display.
Lestrade was entirely unfazed. He advanced half a step, his voice dropping into a sly murmur that couldn't conceal his underlying affection:
"Anthea told me you’ve skipped three dentist appointments this month."
Mr. Holmes froze for half a second. His gaze turned into a bolt of frozen lightning that shot straight toward the Jaguar where Anthea was standing.
"She will be terminated," Mr. Holmes declared in a chilling voice, his volume loud enough for the assistant to hear perfectly clearly from a distance.
Anthea felt a slight shiver, but she maintained her professional smile and did not shift her posture. She knew her shield was standing right in front of Mr. Holmes.
"Don't go threatening the poor girl, Mycroft," Lestrade intervened immediately, stepping sideways to partially block Mr. Holmes's line of sight toward the vehicle. "She's only doing it because she worries about you."
"She has committed a severe breach of her superior's personal data security protocol," Mr. Holmes argued coldly.
"Then the question remains: When exactly are you going to the dentist?" Lestrade crossed his arms, cornering Mr. Holmes in the debate. "You ate barely anything tonight, I noticed. You only picked at the soft soup and refused to chew properly. Your tooth hurts, doesn't it?"
Exposed so directly, Mr. Holmes grew visibly uncomfortable. He tightened his grip on the handle of his umbrella, adopting his most rigid, formal posture to mask his embarrassment.
"Inspector, you are profoundly infringing upon privacy regulations and security protocols. I must insist you terminate this conversation, which yields zero informational value, immediately."
Lestrade looked at him, and then unexpectedly sighed. His voice suddenly softened, becoming strangely tender:
"Myc, you really aren't cute when you're like this. And you ought to go to the dentist. I'm truly worried."
The word "cute" appearing in the same sentence, let alone directed at the most powerful man in Great Britain, caused the surrounding air to freeze solid.
Mr. Holmes stared at the inspector, his lips pressed tight. He spun the tip of his umbrella in a tiny circle on the damp ground, his voice remaining stiff, but yielding a clear concession:
"I am not cute... I shall take it under consideration, Gregory."
"You had best rest tonight, and go see them first thing tomorrow morning. I'll be asking Anthea to double-check, and if you break your promise, you'll have me to deal with," Lestrade conditioned, his eyes completely serious.
Mr. Holmes immediately reclaimed his sharp demeanor, taking a long step backward toward the car door, which had already been opened for him.
"I have made no such promise to you via official documentation or specific verbal commitment, Inspector. I merely offered the word 'consideration.' And as a reminder, Anthea is terminated as of this very moment."
Confronted with such childish obstinacy hidden beneath that veneer of power, Lestrade suddenly burst out laughing. His laughter was hearty; he looked at Mr. Holmes with a gaze that was almost entirely affectionate, his brown eyes gleaming with undisguised amusement and fondness:
"You are quite cute when you go out of your way to avoid the dentist, Mycroft."
"I object," Mr. Holmes stopped dead at the car door, his back stiffening slightly.
"Promise me," Lestrade took a step closer, his voice entirely imploring.
"I..." Mr. Holmes hesitated, a phenomenon exceedingly rare for him.
"Pleaseeeee," Lestrade deployed his final tactic, looking at him with pathetic puppy-dog eyes the very look he usually used to reform the most stubborn criminals or to placate Sherlock.
Mr. Holmes gripped the handle of his black umbrella so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He glared at the pleading puppy-dog eyes, his lips pressed into a flat, utterly helpless line. He knew he had completely lost to this inspector. Without a single word of farewell, Mr. Holmes decisively turned and swiftly stepped into the vehicle, the Jaguar door slamming shut immediately after.
Lestrade stood on the pavement, watching the car slowly pull away. He smiled faintly and waved to Anthea through the window.
The following morning, the sky over Whitehall was extraordinarily clear.
Anthea walked into the office in a mood that couldn't be brighter. She hadn't been fired at all; in fact, Mr. Holmes's termination order had never even been sent to the Human Resources department. Instead, his morning schedule had been cleared for a two-hour block with the notation: Special Medical Evaluation.
The black Jaguar pulled up in front of an upscale, discreet private dental clinic in central London. Anthea elegantly opened the car door, and to her utter amazement, Mr. Holmes stepped out with a composed demeanor. Though his face was a bit tense, he completely and obediently walked into the clinic without a single complaint or last-minute cancellation.
The chief dentist of the clinic who had been thoroughly accustomed to being rejected and badgered by Mr. Holmes for years stared open-mouthed upon seeing him voluntarily take his seat in the examination chair. He looked toward Anthea standing at the doorway with a gaze reserved for a savior, an angel who had just performed a miracle to rescue humanity.
Anthea merely smiled faintly, nodded to the doctor, and stepped back into the hallway. She unlocked her BlackBerry, scrolled through her contacts, and paused at a specific name. She knew very well that today's miracle was by no means her doing. It was entirely the power of Inspector Gregory Lestrade the only man in the world who could control the British Government with a single sentence.
Anthea had dedicated seven full years of her life to serving the British Government or more precisely, serving the grand mind that ran it. She had witnessed Mr. Holmes overturn a global financial crisis with just three phone calls, topple a corrupt Prime Minister with a thin dossier, and orchestrate an entire international intelligence network as smoothly as playing a violin sonata.
Mr. Holmes was a genius. No one could deny that.
Yet right now, as she sat in the front seat of the black Jaguar, looking through the rearview mirror to observe that powerful man meticulously using a handkerchief to wipe away a stray splash of raspberry sauce that had accidentally stained Inspector Lestrade's coat sleeve, Anthea felt a helplessness so profound she wanted to look up at the heavens and groan.
That helplessness did not stem from the fact that Mr. Holmes had just made her cancel a meeting with the Minister of Defence simply to drop by the dentist "on the way." Rather, it came from the fact that her boss a man whose IQ surpassed all conventional boundaries and the inspector himself still implicitly and wholeheartedly believed that their relationship was merely a "pure friendship" and "efficient professional cooperation".
"Thanks, Mycroft," Lestrade sighed with relief, letting Mr. Holmes hold his wrist to clean it, his tone frighteningly casual. "The food at that French place is good, but they overdo it with the sauces. If you hadn't noticed, I probably would have carried this red stain right into the briefing room."
"It is elementary observation, Gregory," Mr. Holmes replied indifferently, carefully folding his handkerchief and returning it to his pocket as if nothing had happened. "And I believe that ensuring an Inspector does not resemble a child who has just smeared food on themselves falls within the purview of maintaining the image of law enforcement."
"Right, right," Lestrade chuckled, giving Mr. Holmes's thigh a resounding slap. "You always think of everything."
In the front seat, Anthea nearly dropped her BlackBerry onto the floor of the car. She had to deploy the entirety of her ten years of high-level operative facial-muscle training just to keep her lips from twitching.
A part of maintaining the image of law enforcement?
Anthea screamed internally. Was there any inter-departmental coordination statute dictating that a supreme government official must sit and inspect every single sauce stain on a police inspector's coat? Was there any decree allowing someone with clinical-level germaphobia like Mr. Holmes to willingly touch another person's soiled clothing without so much as a single flinch?
And above all, the way Mr. Holmes had just acted... it was entirely the possessive and doting behavior of someone in love! Yet, look at the expressions on their faces. One looked utterly serious, while the other grinned from ear to ear, brimming with gratitude.
The car pulled up in front of New Scotland Yard. Lestrade opened the door and stepped out, not forgetting to turn back with a warm smile:
"Thanks for dinner and the lift, Mycroft. I'll buy you a pint sometime when we're free. Oh, and remember to take the medicine the dentist prescribed!"
"Until next time, Gregory," Mr. Holmes gave a slight nod.
The car door closed. The Jaguar continued down the bustling London avenue. The interior immediately reverted to its familiar quiet, pressurized atmosphere. Mr. Holmes leaned back against his seat, steepled his fingers, and fixed his gaze out the window once more, falling into a pensive reverie that Anthea knew all too well meant he was replaying the inspector's recent smile over and over in his mind.
"Anthea," Mr. Holmes spoke suddenly, breaking the silence.
"Yes, Sir?" Anthea swiftly adjusted her tone, ready to take notes.
"Prepare a draft for a new decree regarding a budget increase for inspectors within the London Major Crimes Unit. I observe that their work attire is... rather flimsy and insufficient to provide adequate warmth during this transitional seasonal weather."
Anthea closed her eyes for a single second. She took a deep breath to suppress the lump rising in her throat. Flimsy? Warmth? Wasn't it simply because earlier, under the restaurant awning, he had spotted Lestrade's frayed coat cuffs?
"Sir," Anthea decided to attempt a risky move. She turned slightly, her professional gaze locking onto her employer. "If you are specifically concerned about Inspector Lestrade's health, we could simply send a personal gift package under the guise of... a close friend. That would be far more efficient and practical than adjusting an entire departmental budget decree."
Mr. Holmes immediately averted his gaze from the window. His grey-blue eyes narrowed, fixing Anthea with a look that mixed astonishment with a hint of... reprimand, as though she had just proposed an utterly preposterous hypothesis.
"What exactly are you implying, Anthea?" Mr. Holmes coldly dismantled the suggestion. "Inspector Lestrade and I share a purely professional relationship on a strictly occupational level. My concern for him is predicated upon the preservation of a vital asset who directly influences the psychological stability of Sherlock Holmes. Dispatching a personal gift package is a redundant, unprofessional act that could yield unwarranted misunderstandings."
Mr. Holmes delivered the lengthy tirade coherently, logically, and brimming with the upright rectitude of a head of government. He was so confident in his own rationale that no ordinary person could ever find a flaw in it.
Anthea looked at her employer a man who could read the innermost minds of double agents yet remained entirely blind to the beating of his own heart. She felt an epic wave of helplessness crashing onto her shoulders.
"Understood, Sir. I shall prepare the draft decree immediately," Anthea murmured, bowing her head as her fingers flew across her BlackBerry keyboard with a furious, venting speed.
She thought to herself that if there were ever a global championship for the world's finest self-deceivers, her boss and the inspector would undoubtedly share the champion and runner-up trophies. They flirted with their very lives, worried over each other, and were fully prepared to alter the national budget for one another... yet at the end of the day, they still proudly proclaimed it to be "professional camaraderie." She realized the two of them were truly undefeated champions of denial.
Anthea clicked her tongue softly, looking down at her BlackBerry. She decided to give up on attempting to awaken these two stubborn minds. They wanted to call it friendship? They wanted to call it a working relationship? Fine. As long as after every single one of those "work meetings," Mr. Holmes did not transform the office into a minefield and she didn't have to face the threat of being fired on a daily basis, then whatever bizarre label they chose to flirt under, Anthea was more than ready to throw up her hands in helpless resignation.