Chapter Text
Monitor: Camera 3, Gilston Street. Time: 17:34, March 27, 2009
The blue monitor flickered with irregular static lines. Mycroft Holmes leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen deftly in his right hand – an unconscious habit when deep in thought. His lips were pressed into a thin line as he stared at the screen, his gaze locked onto the tall, lean figure of a man.
Sherlock Holmes.
Most of the snow had melted, leaving only grimy remnants piled in the corners. Sherlock faced the camera, his back against a wall, arms spread wide to show the three surrounding officers that he was unarmed. Yet, their guns remained trained on him. His lips moved rapidly, the outdated monitor unable to transmit sound, but Mycroft could easily read his words: "If you think the person at the scene—me—is the murderer, then you’re beyond hopeless. A killer wouldn’t be stupid enough to return three days later, and your forensics team is utterly incompetent—they can’t even determine the actual time of death."
Mycroft felt a throbbing at his temples. He pressed his fingers to his forehead, shaking his head and muttering under his breath, "If you can’t even recognize your own predicament, how are you any different from those foolish policemen?"
Another officer entered the frame from below. He stepped forward and placed his hands on the shoulders of the younger officers. The three policemen slowly lowered their weapons.
Mycroft straightened in his seat, studying the officer’s back for clues about his identity – anything to gauge whether Sherlock’s situation had improved or worsened. The grainy footage and the obstructed view limited Mycroft’s usual deductive prowess. He could discern that the officer held a senior rank, was middle-aged, right-handed, and showed no overt hostility toward Sherlock.
The officer raised his right hand, signaling Sherlock to continue.
Sherlock adjusted his collar with exaggerated flair and resumed his tirade. Mycroft could tell his brother was right, though omitting the arrogance would have made the police far more receptive.
The officer crossed his arms, shifted his weight from his left leg to his right, and after a moment’s thought, nodded to the officers beside him. With a slight tilt of his chin toward Sherlock, he led the others away, leaving Sherlock standing there, visibly irritated.
Mycroft sank back into his chair, relieved yet surprised. Sherlock’s escape was unexpected – this wasn’t the first time he’d tangled with the police. Under normal circumstances, Mycroft would have already been on the phone with the local Chief Superintendent, smoothing things over for his brother.
Noticing his reaction, Anthea paused her typing and glanced up. "Do you need this officer’s file?"
Mycroft shook his head. "If I had to collect a dossier on every officer Sherlock has ever annoyed, my desk would have no room left for anything else."
Anthea gave a noncommittal shrug.
Mycroft’s mind was a precision instrument, adept at discarding irrelevant data to maintain efficiency. Clearly, this was just another minor incident in a long series of repetitions – hardly worth further attention.
---
Monitor: Scotland Yard, Interior. Time: 08:30, July 3, 2009
A yellow alert flashed for Sherlock’s surveillance level. Mycroft minimized his video conference window and opened the live feed – this time from Scotland Yard’s internal cameras, far clearer than the last.
The accompanying message was brief: S.H. arrested in drug bust.
The concise words sent a jolt through Mycroft. He knew Sherlock occasionally indulged in "snacks," and while he’d once forced him into rehab, the results had been negligible. Harsh measures only deepened Sherlock’s resentment, leading to disappearances that ended with Mycroft retrieving him from the slums.
The memories were too painful to revisit, so Mycroft focused on the screen, tracking Sherlock’s movements through the shifting camera angles.
Sherlock looked furious. Dressed in an uncharacteristic dark blue hoodie and scruffy jeans, his hair a wild mess, he was shouting at an examiner holding a plastic cup before storming into the men’s restroom. He emerged moments later, thrusting a cup of pale yellow liquid at the examiner before slumping onto a bench in the hallway, shoulders sagging in defeat.
Mycroft assessed his behavior and concluded he hadn’t taken drugs, which eased his tension slightly. Still, his fingers drummed restlessly against his chin as he waited to see how things would unfold.
The masked examiner reappeared, murmuring something to an officer nearby. The officer clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "You’re clean. You’re free to go, but we’ll need you as a witness – stay reachable."
Sherlock jerked away as if avoiding contamination. Without a word, he strode out, his expression dark.
The footage switched to Scotland Yard’s entrance, where Sherlock exited, only for another officer to hurry after him and block his path. Mycroft paused, his cursor hovering over the close button. He recognized him – the same officer who’d intervened months earlier. Now, centered in the frame, Mycroft could study him in detail.
His epaulettes marked him as an Inspector. He appeared to be in his early forties, with neatly cropped hair streaked with grey. Faint lines etched his forehead even when relaxed, a testament to the stress of his job. Yet his eyes were large and bright, their brown irises occasionally flickering with exasperation. His overcoat, though clean, had lost its crispness from years of wear, and the faded ring on his right hand suggested marital strain.
"Hey, wait," the Inspector said.
Sherlock stopped, scowling, but said nothing.
"Look, I don’t know if you remember me, but I remember you. Four months ago, at that crime scene – every lead you pointed out checked out. We caught the killer right where you said we would."
Sherlock’s expression remained unimpressed. "And?"
The Inspector continued, "You’re clearly brilliant, and I’d love to have someone like you feeding us solid leads. But you’ve got to follow the rules, understand?"
"The results are in. I’m clean. What more is there to say?" Sherlock shot back.
The Inspector raised a placating hand. "I’ve seen the report. But what were you doing there alone? It’s dangerous – whether we mistake you for a suspect or the dealers catch you."
Sherlock scoffed. "You’re too slow. All of you. By the time you act, they’re already gone."
"We need solid evidence before we move," the Inspector explained patiently. "We can’t just chase every hunch."
"Evidence, evidence, evidence – how can you miss what’s right in front of you?"
To Mycroft’s surprise, the Inspector burst out laughing, leaving Sherlock momentarily stunned. "Still... you implied before that we could work together, right? I mean, you’d keep feeding us leads?" Sherlock asked, the arrogance momentarily replaced by a flicker of something else.
The Inspector gripped Sherlock’s shoulder – this time, Sherlock didn’t pull away. "Of course. But you’ve got to stay safe. Deal? Leave the risky work to us."
His tone was so genuine that even Sherlock couldn’t refuse. He gave a grudging nod.
The Inspector then pulled a crumpled transparent bag from his coat pocket. Inside was a squashed sandwich, its filling oozing out, the triangular shape long lost. "Figured you’d be starving after being held overnight. Consider it a... reward for last time. I know it’s not much, but the vending machine only had this."
Sherlock pinched the bag between two fingers, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "...Thanks?"
The Inspector grinned, clapped him firmly on the arm, and said, "Good lad," before turning and striding purposefully back into the building.
Mycroft clicked to close the video window.
He returned briefly to his meeting, delivering a summary filled with the usual bureaucratic platitudes – a weariness settling over him. Then, he looked up at Anthea. "Get me that Inspector’s file."
"DI Lestrade’s?" Anthea replied smoothly, fingers already dancing over her phone. "It’s already saved in your drive, sir."