Mystrade one-shots

Wild Goose Chase: Continued

Let's jump straight in...

TRIGGER WARNING
------------------------------
If Greg could do anything in his life, he would take it back. For the rest of his life, he'd have to carry around the weight of what he'd done. He regretted it constantly but, deep down, he knew he'd made the right decision.
***
The door was rotting, so flimsy Greg's finger could penetrate the first few layers of wood effortlessly. He pushed it open gently to reveal yet another, surprisingly well-lit, corridor. The floor and walls were clean and whitewashed, and Greg's shoes clicked satisfyingly on the tiles. Another door sat at the end of the corridor, and something deep in his stomach told him this was it. He grasped the knob and twisted, pushing the door open. What was in front of him would stay embedded in his memory for the rest of his life.

Two chairs were facing away from him. Two familiar pairs of hands, one for each chair, were bound behind their backs. A ripped suit jacket lay on the floor underneath one of the chairs, and the hands tied to the backrest were extremely familiar. The torchlight moved slowly up their back, to reveal an auburn head with a small balding patch that could only belong to one person.
"Oh Myc, what have they done to you?" Greg murmured, watching as his friend's shoulders relaxed after hearing his voice.

It took him longer to identify the other person than Greg would ever admit. Their torso was considerably shorter, the top of their head around the same height as the middle of Mycroft's back. Clearly a child.

"So you've worked out one of them.. care to come and look at their faces?"
A voice in the dark rung out through the room, diminishing one of Greg's theories. Of course it wasn't Moriarty, he would never get his hands dirty.

Greg tentatively stepped forwards, gun gripped tightly in his hand, walking so he was in front of Mycroft. He shone the torch just under Mycroft's chin, inspecting his face to check for any damage. His mouth was taped shut, and his eyes were hooded. Apart from a few bloodstains on his jaw, he seemed physically fine. Just as Greg was about to breathe a sigh of relief, a tiny voice to his left stopped him in his tracks.

"Daddy? Have you come to pick me up?"

Greg's heart stopped, all the blood in his body running cold as his brain worked at a million miles an hour. Was he hurt? Where was he hurt? I'll kill the bastard, I'll kill the bastard. He tried to remain calm, and spoke softly.

"Yes, buddy. I've come to take you home."

"Uh-uh. I don't think so."
A man walked out from the shadows, clicking his fingers as he did so, signalling the lights to come on. The whole room was illuminated, and Greg could finally see the person that could so easily tear his life apart.
He was tall, taller than Moriarty, with muscular arms and a smirking face. His short brown hair was pushed up and to the side, making him look remarkably clean.
"What do you mean, 'I don't think so'?" Greg demanded. "Who are you?"

The man just laughed and stepped closer to Mycroft and the boy, placing a hand on one of their shoulders. His voice was calm and clear, not quite as soft as Moriarty's but they spoke in the same, fluid way. He too was of Irish origin, his accent was pronounced yet subtle.
"What is your name? I want to know your name."
"My name is none of your business, Mr. Lestrade. I know you, and that's enough, don't you think?"
Greg locked his jaw and pushed his anger deep into his belly.
"I knew you well enough to know that both of my little friends here are of importance to you, and that you were meant to be seeing your children tonight anyway so wouldn't have thought to contact them beforehand. You wouldn't have even imagined that the boy in the tabloids was your darling son." The man continued, "As for Mycroft, well. He's been quite fun to play with. All he asked was that I don't touch his face, and I haven't. I've just added to the damage on other parts of his body."
Greg's eyes burned, and he quickly glanced down at Mycroft with a mixture of concern, hurt and anger. He seemed to know what the message was, and Mycroft shook his head.
"He's been quite valiant, really. He's taken double the amount of torture he should've." The man stared at Greg calculatingly as the D.I. looked down at his best friend again. Mycroft's eyes slowly closed, and suddenly Greg was fuelled with rage.

"So he's willing to take my son's beatings too just because he won't see a little boy being hurt, and you give it to him." Greg spat, fiddling with something in his pocket. "I thought even you would have some respect for courage."

"Really? I did, the beatings were only soft. Anyway, let's talk about why we're all gathered here today. I've got a little game for you. It's called Murder in the Dark. One of these people will die at your hand and the other will live."
"Why?"
"I need a bit of fun."
"What kind of sadist are you?"
"A damn good-looking one."
"What if I refuse?"
"All three of you die, no hesitation."
"What if I was to shoot you now, right now, and leave? Because I would, happily."
The man smirked. "Oh, I don't think you will."

Three red beams pierced through the darkness, each pinpointed somewhere on the bodies of Mycroft, Greg and his son. Greg sighed heavily and was just about to rest his gun down, when-
"Boss?"

Donovan and Sherlock both burst casually through the door, both brandishing pistols and spreading throughout the room. Greg's shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned to the others.
"It's checkmate. I'm sorry. I have to do this."

The man smirked and his eyes widened as Greg raised the gun and pointed it directly at Mycroft. Greg's face crumpled as a solitary tear slid down Mycroft's cheek, and he whispered to both him and Sherlock.
"I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. Please forgive me."

The man gave a countdown.
"3." A protest from Donovan.
"2." A short 'Daddy? What are you doing?'
"1." Mycroft's eyes fell shut.

Bang.

All three guns in the room were raised in the air, and the red beams were gone. Donovan massaged her shoulder, eliminating the pain caused by the rebound, while Greg rubbed the powder burns off his hands. Sherlock, however, had the mystery man in a headlock with his gun pressed against his temple. He glanced over at his shaken brother.

"Are you alright?" When Mycroft didn't answer, he repeated, "MYCROFT ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW, ARE YOU OKAY?"
"'Tis but a few scratches, little brother. I'll live." Mycroft looked around for Greg. "Don't you ever do that to me again, Gregory."

Greg laughed as he ran over to untie his son.
"Don't worry," he laughed, "I'm not planning on it."
Donovan got to work untying Mycroft's wrists, and Sherlock dragged the man responsible out of the building.

"Daddy, are we still going on the trip to the zoo with Leah tomorrow?" The young boy clung onto his dad, wrapping his arms around his neck. Greg smiled.
"No, sweetheart. Maybe next day off I have, yeah? I need to call mummy first. Did the nasty man hurt you?"
He shook his head.
"No, daddy. Mikey stopped him."
Greg smiled softly, tears building in his eyes.
"Well, Mikey is a very good man then, isn't he?"
Mycroft scowled at his friend, slowly standing up and rubbing his wrists.
"If you ever call me 'Mikey' again, Gregory, I will forge your signature, change your surname by deed poll to 'Arsewipe' and never let you change it back again." He looked disappointedly at the pile of fabric under his chair. "It's a pity. That was my favourite."

Greg hugged Mycroft quickly. "I think that's the least of your worries. You need to get those cuts checked."

At that moment, Sherlock strolled back through the door, one hand at his ear and one resting on his hip.
"Yes, an ambulance... Thanks... What happened?... He fell over. Yeah, got a few nasty grazes... Broken nose, fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, countless bruises. Probable tissue damage... The old factory in Addlestone, you'll know it. Thanks."

"I see he'll be out of action for a while." said Mycroft. Sherlock grinned.
"Well, I did learn from the best." They shared a small smile before hugging each other tightly, Sherlock being much more careful than Mycroft, barely touching the tender skin on his back. Donovan and Greg smiled at the sight.

"Let's leave them to it, shall we?" Donovan said, lifting the young boy and carrying him gently over to the car. Greg organised for the bodies in the upper floor of the warehouse to be collected and removed, and inspected the damage to himself.

Not bad for a 52-year-old.

-------------------------
This is one of my favourites, and a lot of you wanted part 2! I was going to give it to you anyway, I just wanted to know if anyone actually liked it, which you seemed to.

As always, feedback is much appreciated, and I'll write again soon.

~Lauren xxx