The Autobiography of Mycroft Holmes

Chapter 24: The Truth

Sherlock and I walked to Lestrade's house in the rain, and when we finally arrived, it was down pouring. Again, I had neither the sense nor the wit to take an umbrella or wear a hood, so I was drenched by the time I was knocking on Lestrade's door. Sherlock complained during the entire walk.

"I can't even be here the whole time!" she griped. "You're going to sit here all day and do nothing at all and I'm going to have to go meet a client while you're relaxing in Lestrade's house."

"Sherlock, for lack of a better comeback, deal with it. You're meeting him in Starbucks, anyway. It can't be too bad," I said, shaking my head and knocking on the door again.

From inside, I heard "I'm coming! Give me just one minute!"

"Uh-oh, it's the D.I. again," Sherlock said.

"I thought you wanted to see her," I mused. "Get back to your real life after a full year and a half of doing absolutely nothing of value?"

"Shut up," Sherlock said, cutting me off. I raised my eyebrows and turned towards the door again just as Lestrade opened it.

"Mycroft Holmes? In the flesh? Can that really be you after all this time? And Sherlock! The Consulting Detective herself!"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," I said to her snidely as a greeting. "Back to Scotland Yard, finally?"

"Tomorrow's the day," she stated, seemingly cleaning her hands off on her leggings. I deduced powder, possibly from baked goods. The apron she was wearing was filthy, and so I thought maybe she baked multiple things. Judging by the dark stains, likely brownies and --

"I was just baking cookies just now, and I had to take them out of the oven."

"Fine then, Gina. Sherlock, let us enter," I said, walking in behind Gina and watching as Sherlock followed me and then stepped around me over to the oven. I looked around the house for a second or two. Domestic bliss. It was physically sickening.

"I had finished the brownies," Lestrade stated, pointing to the table. "Have one!" she shouted from the kitchen. Sherlock ran out, grabbed a brownie from the plate, and ran back into the kitchen.

I noticed that sitting in a high chair next to where I was presently seated was Lestrade's baby daughter. It had to be, but she did not look the least bit like Lestrade. I would have bet money that DNA would prove it wasn't her daughter.

Nonetheless, I shouted into the kitchen, "Your daughter is beautiful, Lestrade. Looks just like you."

"Doesn't she? Thanks!" Lestrade yelled back before blowing through the door once more with drinks. The baby began to cry, and I yelled for Lestrade.

"Gina!" I shouted.

"I know, Mycroft," she said, running in with a pacifier. The baby began to suck on it, and Gina sat down with me while Sherlock remained in the kitchen, cooking.

"What's her name?" I asked Lestrade.

"Gemma Lestrade."

"Oh, she's got your last name?"

"No, Lestrade is her middle name," Gina said.

The confused expression on my face should have said it all, but I spoke anyway. "You gave her your last name as her middle name?" I asked.

"Yep, it's a family tradition," she said before standing. "I'll be right back - how's it going in there, Sherlock?" she shouted into the kitchen before disappearing into it.

"I talked to Gregson once," Lestrade said, walking back out with my sister after picking up some food. I began to pay attention. "It was the day after the fourth murder. I had no idea you were calling me," she told both of us as she remembered something she had clearly been wanting to tell us for the past year and four months.

"Nothing we can do about it now," I said. "I knew someone would die that night. No matter if your team was there that night, it would have happened. And I could have said it would be Eldridge. The murderer is odd in that way; he murders all the Seniors who are obviously very important to me and then proceeds to threaten me, but he defends my skills and later kills a man that is a threat to me."

"That is very abnormal behavior," Lestrade said. "But I had another murderer once who was obsessed with a member of my team and he flat out said it in blood; literally. At least yours isn't that psychotic."

"And he hasn't done anything in over a year. Once he realized I'd be out of commission because you took time off, he stopped killing."

"Correct. So we have certainly got something very interesting on our hands," Lestrade said.

We sat and ate for a while, and then Sherlock's phone went off. It was the client, telling Sherlock he'd be at the Starbucks on Baker Street within the hour. Sherlock promptly left, and I was alone with Lestrade.

I sat in the cab, leaving Lestrade's a few hours after our meeting. Before I could really empty my mind, compartmentalize, and begin to re-process information, I got a phone call. I quickly put back all the thoughts in my brain so I could organize them later, and picked up the phone.

"Hello?" I asked into the receiver.

"Mycroft? It's Tom."

"Oh, hello. Are you at the Diogenes?"

"No. I'm by Tower Bridge. Villarreal's body washed up on shore."

"What?" I asked. I was shocked to hear this.

"He killed himself. He left a recorded note in his home. Nobody told you he was missing?"

"No! I never knew... Should I come over to the bridge? I'm in a cab."

"No. The police are angry enough as it is that I'm here. Lestrade's old Scotland Yard team isn't going to be here; Gregson is on her own case."

"Damn her! I told her to watch this case closely!"

"One more thing, Mycroft. In Villarreal's note, he talked about the murderer. He said the murderer haunted him. I don't know what that means, but it doesn't sound good. He restated that Eldridge should have lived that day instead of him."

"How could we have not known this would happen? How could we have not had the foresight..." I trailed off.

"You can't blame yourself, Mycroft."

"It was my bloody case, Tom!" I shouted. The cabbie looked back into the rearview mirror suspiciously as we pulled up to 221B. I waved at the cabbie, got out, and paid him through the window. I opened the door to go inside.

"May have been your case, but there was no murderer this time. How odd," Tom said. I was livid. With him for angering the police, and with the murderer, whoever he was, for doing this to begin with.

I was ready to yell into the speaker and throw the phone into the street. What a tragedy. What an absolute travesty. Villarreal was the only Senior left. He was one of my oldest, and only, friends. He was my friend.

And that was the day that I think I myself became a murderer.

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