Archive of Our Own ^beta

A white gate gleams under the sun.

Beyond the gate, a silky, flat-ironed lawn of the shade known to the global elite as British Racing Green. A white marquee can be seen in the distance, with a king-size H on its side panels and a number of guests hovering around in murmurous twos and threes.

Lestrade, out of breath and in his everyday clothes, approaches the gate at a jogging step and stops to check his watch.

Lestrade : I’m late, I’m late – sod it, I’m later than the sodding unicorns when they were paged for Noah’s Ark. (Trying to rattle the gate open.) On an important date, too. Oi!

The tall butler who has materialised behind the gate eyes him stonily.

Butler : May I be of assistance, sir?

Lestrade : I’m here for the party. Detective Inspector...

Butler : Trying to blag our way in, are we?

Lestrade : …Say again?

Butler : Come, come, none of your clever lip. We’ve had your sort here before. A detective inspector? That’s a new one. (Triumphant.) Where’s your fedora, then?

Lestrade gapes, speechless.

Butler (pressing his advantage) : Where’s your raincoat? And your moustache? Where’s your wife? Bloody pleb can’t even be arsed to look the part. (With a truculent wink.) Left her at home ironing the ’stache while you went on a top-secret mission, eh?

Lestrade : Now look here, my man. There's got to be some sort of mistake. My name is Lestrade, Greg Lestrade, and I’m here on account of – on account – Christ, it’s hot down here. Look, I’m the bloody guest of honour! (Raising his voice as he fine-tunes his point.) Ask Mrs Holmes if you won’t believe me. I’m her alibi! Her motive and opportunity for the whole caboodle! The who-it’s-done-for! I’m Mycroft Holmes’s –

Butler : Oh, so you’re one of the family now.

Lestrade is trying to wipe the sweat off his face with his sleeve.

Lestrade : Guess I am, yeah. Am I? God Almighty, I’m dripping here.

Butler : Allow me, sir.

His tones have morphed to velvety attentiveness, since he is now addressing Mycroft Holmes, standing behind the gate with another tall man. They are dressed in 1920s whites, with a striped blazer and straw boater, each holding a glass of champagne, both looking as if they’d just sauntered out of a field of daisies. The butler unfurls a blush-pink Japanese parasol – looking suspiciously like a giant cocktail umbrella – and holds it over their heads.

Lestrade : Mycroft! For God’s sake, tell yer man to open the bloody gate!

Mycroft : What’s that infernal noise, Cupbutt?

Cupbutt : Beggin' your pardon, sir, but this man says he is the party the party’s being given for. (A supercilious cough.) A member of the constabulary.

The two men chuckle behind the gate, peering at Lestrade through the bars.

Mycroft : Law and Order meet lawn and hors-d’oeuvre? Very funny.

As Lestrade tries to cut him short, he finds, to his dismay, that his speech has turned into a garbled version of the West Country dialect he, as a child, loved to hear his grandfather speak.

Lestrade : Chunt funny! Mickey, stop pissing into the wind and open thik door!

Mycroft : A regrettable confusion, my good man. This party is given for my intended, the Honourable Harry Grey de Strade.

Lestrade : Wos that? Look, I gone and done all the woy for you and it chunt half a long woy too. Gemme a beer and bloody lemme in.

Harry : I say! He’s quite the entertainer. Full-time occupation, what?

Mycroft : Well, he can keep Cupbutt entertained. You and I have more pressing matters to attend, old chap.

Harry : Bout of buggery in the shrubbery, old bean?

Lestrade : Wot?!

Mycroft (coyly) : Raise the jolly old flag for Harry and England. Old fruit.

Harry : Tea and sodomy, the gentleman’s staple diet. Old fruitcake.

They smile, toasting each other lasciviously.

Lestrade : Ho! Holt on, i’th’name of the low –

He pats his pockets blindly, the sweat dripping into in his eyes even as the other two turn their backs on him and begin to stroll up the lawn.

Lestrade : Sherlock! Him a’got me bloody badge. Tell’ee to giss et back! Tell’ee to shoot that sun! Sherlock! SHERLOCK!

With a final, gritted gasp, he strains his eyes open... to the pool of strong yellow light cast by a bedside lamp. The lamp has been turned on by Lestrade’s bedfellow, now propped up on his elbow with a half-amused, half-concerned expression.

Mycroft : You've got the wrong Holmes, Inspector mine.

Ten minutes later. The lamp has been turned off, but the bed and its occupants are draped in the soft clarity of moonlight, stealing through the summer curtains.

Lestrade is sitting up in bed, hugging his drawn-up knees. He is equally indignant with his subconscious for cooking up such tripe and with Mycroft for having coaxed it out of him in no time.

Mycroft is doing his rhetorical best to soothe Lestrade while giving him a backrub.

Mycroft : All dreams end, Gregory. All gates are broken. Butlers, in our troubled, tax-happy times, are no longer an advantage.

Lestrade : Yeah, thank you, Mr Churchill. Can I get back to sleep now?

Mycroft : Only if you promise not to let your next dream sell me short. Given our current trade deficit –

Lestrade huffs into his elbows.

Mycroft : You know, poor Harry would be horrified to find you cast him as the co-respondent. Why, he’s not even a gay dog in the stricted sense of the term. Married ten years and a stickler for business-before-pleasure, which explains why he’s only produced three heirs so far – Golden JuJu, Kate and baby Diamond, who I think is due next March. The Russians did teach us a thing or two about planned economy. Now, the garden gate, symbolism aside –

Lestrade : Mycroft, can we please not debrief on my sodding dreams?

Mycroft : Well, I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea about my family. We do have a three-P ban regarding parties – politics, plonk and pecans – but never ever has it been stretched to police officers.

(He rubs on.)

Least of all officers extraordinaire. With a silver lining and a heart of gold.

Lestrade grins at last and leans back into the touch, relaxing. This time, his lapse into dialect is intentional – a move into intimacy.

Lestrade : Thou bist a rare one thoyself, my luvver.

And then, after a pause...

Lestrade : Pecans too vulgar for the likes of you, eh?

Mycroft : Good god, no. Simply, the fat-to-protein ratio... (He stops, wrapping his hands around Lestrade’s adorably cuddly waistline.) But you don’t need to know about that.

Lestrade : Oh, I don’t, do I?

Mycroft : No. All you need to know is that you will be the guest of honour tomorrow.

Lestrade (letting Mycroft pull him back into a horizontal position, spooned against his chest) : Mmmrf.

Mycroft : They’re all thrilled to meet you. Of course, every family is Members Only when seen from the outside. But you’re well within the pale. My inside man, my lover. My – (with an almost insensible hitch) partner.

Lestrade (yawning) : Sleeping partner, me.

Mycroft : Sleep, then, my dear. (He waits till Lestrade’s breaths have deepened before adding softly) Dream of green fields and tea for two. And don’t you worry about Sherlock. It would take a corpse or two in the rose bush for him to grace us with his thorny presence.

Lestrade’s face twitches briefly at the words, but Mycroft has grown too sleepy himself to notice.

The lawn. The sun.

Lestrade is making resolute progress towards the big white marquee, now occupying most of the foreground. He can hear an unseen band playing soft jazzy music.

Upon entering and adjusting his sight to the penumbra, he finds himself surrounded by teapots. Lined up on trestle tables, they cover the whole crockery spectrum, from the humblest Brown Betty to the bluest Spode matriarch. They have one thing in common: in the best tradition of posh hotel tearooms, each pot is flanked by a small hourglass, its sand pouring smoothly and irreversibly down to measure the steeping time.

The scene is vaguely ominous, perhaps because all the hourglasses ARE TICKING LOUDLY.

A tall waiter stands stock still in the shadow, his white-coated back turned to the table.

Lestrade : ...Hullo? Anyone here?

The waiter whirls around. He’s Sherlock.

Sherlock : Sshh! Can’t you see I’m undercover?

This magnificent piece of logic is backed by the fact that he’s drawn a toothbrush mustache over his upper lip and now looks like an elongated Charlie Chaplin.

Sherlock : What on earth kept you so long? I texted you hours ago. (Pouring Lestrade a cup from the nearest teapot.) Here, drink it to the dregs. The cup is full and the deed is done.

Lestrade drinks up the tea distractedly.

Lestrade : All right, gimme. Bashed in the rose bush, were they?

Sherlock : Wrong.

Lestrade : Croaking on the croquet lawn?

Sherlock : Worse.

Lestrade : Datura in the onion dip?

Sherlock : Not even close. And stop alliterating, it’s annoying.

Lesstrade : Holy smoke, Sherlock! What, you let that Jim bastard fix the drinks?

Sherlock glances around cautiously, then bends over the trestle table to whisper in Lestrade’s ear.

Sherlock : Someone accidentally the Pimm’s.

Lestrade (overwhelmed by a sense of doom) : Oh God, it’s the Pimm’s!

Sherlock : Yes. And with a gaggle of guests in the gazebo, evacuation is off the table.

The hourglasses start ticking louder.

Countdown time, Lestrade. John’s unit is already deployed along the herbacious border. You’ll have to (a quick glance to the table) go pot luck.

Lestrade: But the clues! You haven’t given me the clues!

Sherlock snatches the teacup from his hand and gives it a brisk swirl.

Sherlock : And what’s that under your nose? (Shows him the tea leaves.) A child could read them, Lestrade. Your case is bound up with a camel, here, near the handle. Also a lizard, which denotes – well, there has to be a connection. And an otter.

Lestrade (nods – it all makes perfect sense) : I’ll go and arrest them, then.

Sherlock : Remember, time is of the essence. I’ll stay here undercover.

Acting upon his word, he settles one of the tea cosies over his curls while Lestrade hurries out of the tent. Outside, the lawn is filled with handsome, sharp-dressed guests buzzing happily around, drink in hand. Lestrade is peering surreptitiously into the glasses when he’s hailed by a voice.

Mycroft : Gregory, psst! Over here!

"Here" is a small platform where Mycroft, beaming like a lighthouse, stands next to an elderly lady in a pale peach ensemble, gloves and an enormous hat. Her face, like so many dream-faces, is familiar to Lestrade though he can’t quite place it.

Lestrade : Mycroft, I need to talk to you. Your brother –

Several voices : Shhh!

The elderly lady, taking up what was apparently a speech of welcome : And here is our guest of honour, Detective Inspector Lestrade. We are pleased to welcome him in our garden, where he will have a chance to bloom and blossom under our elder son’s expert touch since, to quote our other son, he is the best of a bad plot.

Mycroft : Hear, hear!

Lestrade : For god’s sake, listen to me! We have a situation.

Mummy : Speaking of which, we would like to call everyone’s attention to our camelias.

Lestrade (startled) : Oh.

Mummy : Our camelias which, although we are the one to say so, have grown utterly divine.

Lestrade : Mother of God!

Mummy (turning to him with a benign smile) : Not quite, Inspector. But it’s always a pleasure to meet with appreciation. (Holding out a gloved hand.) Do call us Lizzie.

Lestrade : Christ, it’s the third clue!

A rising brouhaha among the guests.

Lestrade : Ma’am, I... no, really, I have to... duty before pleasure, as I’m sure you’ll understand. (He pats his pockets, fervently hoping that Sherlock has nicked his badge again. Unfortunately it’s here, and so are his regulation handcuffs.) Your Majesty, there’s a fair chance they’ll only bring light charges against you, but I must ask you to accompany me to the station so I can take your statement.

The band, pat on cue, launches into Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘A Policeman’s Lot is Not a Happy One’.

Mycroft : Gregory?

Lestrade : Oh, Mycroft. Oh fuck, love. I’m so sorry.

Mycroft : Gregory!

Lestrade : Stop pulling my arm, damnit! It’s not like I have a choice, yeah? Our public image... (your hands, Ma’am, if you please)... our off-licences gone bust... oh, can’t you understand...

The public’s tidal wave of disapproval rises, as Lestrade steps down from the platform, leading a handcuffed Mummy away.

Mycroft : Gregory, you really need to wake up now.

Lestrade (distraught) : She accidentally the Pimm’s!

And wake he does, flailing under the sheets and clutching at Mycroft’s pajama lapels.

Mycroft : Sh-sh-sh. It’s all going to be fine. (He peels off Lestrade’s hands and takes them in his. Looking into his eyes.) We’ll always have Bovril.

Mycroft’s kitchen, all gleaming white tiles and faux vintage appliances. The Aga was modeled by Philippe Starck and can roast an entire poultry yard in fifteen minutes.

Lestrade is drinking something hot from a mug. Judging from his clenched face, it is clear that while he himself is now wide awake, his nerves are still facing Mummy in the dream garden.

Mycroft, swathed in a silk bathrobe, is facing Lestrade.

Mycroft : Are you sure you won’t change your mind about the tranquilisers? They’re an excellent brand. Not quite state-of-the-art – we tested them on Mr Berlusconi back in ’09, with very encouraging results – but reliable.

Lestrade : I’m fine.

Mycroft : Well, it can’t have been very pleasant, arresting my mother coram populo.

Lestrade : I’m fine! Must be a spot of indigestion.

Mycroft : Still, one teeny, weeny little tablet –

Lestrade : Oh, great. Now you want to keep me sedated. What's next, a bedpan? A cocktail straitjacket?

Mycroft : Temper, Gregory, temper. I’m only concerned about those dreams of yours. Speaking as a modest crisis arbiter –

Lestrade : Speaking as a mere bugger, I say leave it. (With an effort at humour.) Let sleeping cops lie, yeah? I’m a big boy, Mycroft. I don’t need anyone to check under the bed for me.

Mycroft : Well, forgive me if I’m a lit-tle upset by your nocturnal romps. You know what they say of dreams and the Unconscious, don’t you? As early as the antique times –

Lestrade : Oh, great, it’s Melvyn Bragg night.

Mycroft : Even the Mesopotamians knew that dreams are a shilly-shally way of exposing the dreamer’s hidden desires. You may not want to charge my mother with criminal assault on cucumbers and ginger ale, but you’re dreaming your best to shirk her party.

Lestrade : What if I am? Look, your mum asked to meet me. All right, fine, I get that. Has to be a bit of a shock for her, her son hooking up with a homicide cop on the rebound, so I’m ready to put myself out. Reassure her that I’m not the Fifth Column, or after the family plate, or a closet necrophiliac. I told you I was willing to take her out somewhere with you. What I didn’t sign for was to see her with a bloody great cloud of witness!

Mycroft, biting his lip, keeps silent.

Lestrade : She can’t be very keen to know me if she’s summoning fifty people alongside. What are they, backup against the poor company? The jury bench? Or am I just a jolly good pretext to air the silver fish knives?

Mycroft : Gregory, you’re not making sense. And you’re being rude, and more than a little unfair.

Lestrade : Unfair?

He thumps the mug down on the table and looks more closely at Mycroft.

Jesus. Sweet baby Jesus in a hail. She never planned any of this, did she? You did. You made her.

Mycroft doesn’t answer.

Why? Why on earth would you do that? You don’t even like your relatives. Told me they kept harping on you to step out of the shadow, make it to Premier or something. And you know how much I hate that crap. Hell, that’s the first thing you said to me after the divorce, remember? "If you step in, Detective Inspector, I’ll hold my peace. You look as if you needed yours rather badly." And that's why I stepped into your big bad car, not caring if anyone saw us, because that's what I saw – peace, privacy, a man holding them out like a late-night blessing.

Mycroft : All I ask is that you step out with me for a few hours. Is that really –

Lestrade : Asking, asking! You never do any asking! I come in one night and hey bingo, there’s a crisp new suit on my bed with a tie already knotted at my neck’s measure. What was I to think?

Mycroft : That I want my people to see you as you deserve to be seen?

Lestrade : Yeah, like a prize on a leash. Like I’m part of the buffet, tucked between the fruit cup and the finger rolls. Well, you know what? I’ve changed my mind.

He grabs the bottle of tranquilisers and pops a handful into his mouth.

Mycroft : Steady on, it’s not a group order! Gregory!

Lestrade (yelling) : And stop calling me that! My name is Greg – plain, undiluted Greg! Or is it a four-letter word in your book?

Almost instantly, his head grows too heavy for his shoulders and he slumps down over the tabletop.

Why – you not answ'ring?

Mycroft sighs and goes over to him, hitching Greg's arm over his shoulders and wrapping his own around Greg's waist to drag him back to bed.

Mycroft : I’m holding my peace, Greg Lestrade.

The lawn. The sun. The crowd.

As Lestrade steps down from the platform, he is grabbed by the guests’ avid hands and spun around from one to another. They pat him down, stroke his hair, paw at his shirt and tie, while he strives for escape to the shrill chords of the band.

Mrs Hudson : He’s so dishy. Who’s in for a bite?

Lestrade : Get off me!

John Watson : A copper tea would be lovely, thank you!

Lestrade : Frauds, the pack of you. Let me go!

Irene Adler : Let’s have him for dinner, topped with whipped cream. Mycroft told us how succulent you are.

Lestrade : Bloody liar!

Jim Moriarty : Oh, but he did, fruit cop. Gave me your number, too. Unlimited buffet, that’s what he said.

Lestrade : No! Not Mycroft.

And, as he speaks the name, Mycroft appears behind the crowd, motionless, his arms hanging at his sides.

Mummy : Why, didn’t he tell you? We all have a sweet tooth in the family, mon chou.

Lestrade : Mycroft, I know they’re lying. Mycroft, love, speak to me. Help me crash the gate. End the dream.

He’s being backed step by step against the buffet, the crowd hard on him.

Mycroft, please!

Mycroft (holding out his arms) : Greg!

Mycroft’s bedroom.

It is filled with early aerial light that softens its angles and brings the furniture back into sight. Only a couple of hours between night and day.

Greg is sitting on the bed in his pajama bottoms and a fresh tee; Mycroft is posted before the open window. One of them is smoking.

Lestrade : Still can’t believe I did wake up. God, that's good. Are you sure you slipped me the right pills? The way I feel now, I wonder Berlusconi didn’t make it to the papacy.

Mycroft shakes his head, looking down.

Mycroft : Greg... my mother usually rises with the birds. A family trait, I think, just as my father was something of a nighthawk. I can have the whole thing called off in an hour or so.

Lestrade : Rubbish. Of course we’re going, Mycroft.

Mycroft : I’ve been... very remiss. I’ve forgotten that while 90% of my work lies in planning, and planning alone, certain decisions should really be taken together. Listen. The reason I asked Mummy to launch this party –

Lestrade rises and crosses over to him.

Lestrade : Hey. (He prises the cigarette gently but firmly from Mycroft’s fingers and stubs it out on the window sill.) You don’t have to explain yourself. Look, I know I’ve been a rare arse about the whole thing. But you were right, and I was wrong – this isn’t about me or my fears.

He pauses in order to take Mycroft’s face in his hands and kiss his cheeks, his lips, his chin, and, last but not least, Mycroft’s imperial Roman nose.

This is about us.

Mycroft : Yes.

Lestrade : A statement. A declaration of intent.

Mycroft (in a whisper) : Yes. But if you feel that it’s too early –

Lestrade : You kidding me? (He pulls Mycroft, loose-limbed and exhausted, against him.) Can’t be worse than the Met’s press confs, and I’ve conducted one of these starkers in my dreams. At least this will be a joint venture.

Mycroft (smiling a little) : A naked agreement?

Lestrade : The best of all. Come back to bed, love.

A charming walled garden, stretching out before a 17th century house near Brighton. Part of it is an orchard already showing a crop of apples under the dappled white sky.

Though it lacks a band and a marquee, Mrs Holmes’ party is a delight to the happy few who attend it, tracing doodles around the small chairs and tables as they chase up a tray of foie gras or flee a relative.

Mrs Holmes, a gentle woman in every sense of the word, is chatting with Lestrade.

Mummy : I’m so glad you like the place, Mr Lestrade. Mycroft must take you around, tell you about its lore and legends. Sherlock and he made a generous contribution in their younger days, but of course I’m not allowed to tell those stories.

Lestrade : None will be taken down and used against you, Mrs Holmes!

Mummy : Oh, you must call me Helen. My husband’s little joke, when he still lived here – Helen and the apple. He’d been a great biologist in his prime, but as he grew older, he turned to grafting and spent most of his time here, matchmaking for the apples. Sherlock found it very tedious until his father suggested they replicate the Tree of Knowledge. From, you know, Genesis.

Mycroft : His first crime scene reconstitution.

Mummy : Mycroft prefered to use the trees as a hiding-place. And vantage observation post. But, Mr Lestrade –

Lestrade : Greg, please!

Mummy : – I can’t let you remain with a half-empty cup, not on a day like this. It’s Pimm’s o’clock!

Lestrade (pinching Mycroft’s linen-sheathed bottom to stop his smirk) : Quite right. Thank you, Mrs... Helen.

Mrs Holmes : I'm so happy you two found each other. Mycroft thinks we’re disappointed in him because all his Firsts did not add up to a premiership. But my one and only hope, all these years, has been to meet his first love.

Mycroft : Mummy...

Mrs Holmes : Which I now hope will be his last. Yes, yes, Mycroft, I shall now – what’s that word again? Circulate. Like the cash system.

She winks at her smiling son. It’s a longstanding joke between them.

Take Greg to the summer house if you want some peace and quiet. Or the gazebo. Oh, he did tell you about poor Great-great-uncle Hamish and the gazebo, Greg?

Mycroft suddenly stops smiling.

Lestrade : No, I don’t think he did. What’s the tale?

Mycroft (impatiently) : Mummy –

Mummy : Yes, dear, I know. Like the cash system. I’d better check on Cousin Louie, anyway. Ever since she saw that photograph of Sherlock in the hat, she’s been telling everyone that he’s disgraced us all and gone into cabaret.

Mrs Holmes walks off to speak to her relative. Greg stares at Mycroft.

Lestrade : What’s that with Great-great-uncle Hamish? You look as if you’d swallowed a mayfly with your strawberry.

Mycroft : It’s nothing, really. An old family scandal.

Lestrade : You think that’s news for me? C’mon, out with the skeleton in the gazebo.

Mycroft (reluctantly) : Oh, all right. Just a piece of family lore, really. Great-great-uncle Hamish was a rather silly man – always dressed to the nines and a fusspot about his eating habits. (He stops). I’m not sure telling you all this is such a good idea.

Lestrade : You can’t stop here! What did he do, turn the gazebo into a veggie café?

Mycroft : No, no. The nitwit summoned his entire family to a tea party in this very garden, so they could watch him propose to a young lady under the gazebo. Well, they didn’t have BBC 2 at the time; I suppose it counted as home entertainment.

Lestrade : And what did the young lady do?

Mycroft : Took one look at Hamish and a fast boat to China. A literal boat. I can’t say I blame her, but it's left our garden with a pretty bad name. The next generations’ lovers took to proposing indoors.

Lestrade : Good god.

Mycroft : Oh, they patched things up in the end. She met a surgeon in the English Army out there, Wilson or Whatnot, and Hamish became godfather to their child. Shall we circulate?

Lestrade : I don’t think that’s the end of the story, Mycroft.

Mycroft : I can assure you –

Lestrade : You nearly gasped when your mum mentioned it. You – wait a tick.

Mycroft now looks as if he’d gladly board the next boat to China.

Lestrade : Mycroft – oh, you soppy Machiavel, you. Did you actually set up this whole hoo-ha to redeem the gazebo?

Mycroft : It seems that stupidity does run in the family, after all.

Lestrade : Nonsense. Of course we’ll rehab the gazebo!

Mycroft : Greg, are you certain – you know you hate that sort of publicity.

Lestrade : I’ve seen worse. At least there will be only one question, this time...

Mycroft : We’ve only been together for five months –

Lestrade : ... and one that I’ll know how to answer.

Mycroft : You’re certain?

Lestrade : Christ, yes. You?

For all answer, Mycroft wraps his fingers around Greg’s hand – the cup-holding hand – and raises it to his lips, drinking from his cup.

Good. We have a deal.

Mycroft (releasing his hand) : There are a few details I should attend to. Meet me under the gazebo in ten minutes?

Lestrade (teasing) : Wait! You’re really going to leave me alone? Remember, that’s when things go skewed-up in this party. Are you sure you want to risk a rain of locusts? Or Sherlock texting everyone to forbid the bans?

Mycroft : I’d like to see him try. You needn’t worry about any further obstacle, Greg. Why, haven’t you understood yet where you are?

Lestrade : Where I – (A sudden breakthrough.) You don’t mean we’re in your dream now?

Mycroft : Absolutely. The most secure place in England, if I say so.

Lestrade : Christ.

He shades his eyes with his hand and takes a deep fresh look at the surroundings.

So this is what your mind palace looks like.

Mycroft (raising an eyebrow) : My what? Greg, I leave small-scale haunts to my little brother. You, my dearest, are welcome in my mind estate.

He bows slightly to Lestrade, gives him a peck on the lips and turns to go. Over his shoulder.

Ten minutes, sharp.

The breeze brings the guests’ cooing and the soft chime of silver on china. Lestrade stays and watches Mycroft go, his long form enveloped in sunlight.

FINIS