Chapter Text
Greg held his breath... and slowly released it when the little red light blinked out. He pushed the window open, slid under it into the darkened building and closed it noiselessly behind him.
That had been far too close for comfort.
He hadn't expected anything like this level of security on the home of a minor government official, even one from an ancient titled family like the Holmes. There must be something a lot more valuable than Lady Holmes' jewels in here - but what? Had her son invested in some art?
Not that it mattered. Even if Holmes had the bloody Mona Lisa in his downstairs loo, Greg knew better than to take anything he couldn't sell - and more importantly, couldn't carry.
As planned he was in the master bedroom. He slid into the shadows beside the huge four-poster bed that dominated the room while he slowed his breathing and heart rate.
Perhaps he should just quit now. It would be irritating as hell to leave empty-handed but that was nothing when weighed against the risk of running into some more of Holmes' unexpected home protection measures...
But then again, the jewels were in this room... and so was he...
Fuck it.
He padded over the rich carpeting to the far side of the room and checked the dressing table for any more security devices. Nothing. He crouched in front of it and set about expertly picking the lock on the main drawer.
The drawer slid open to reveal the late Lady Holmes' collection, including her famed emerald necklace in all its sparkling beauty.
"Hello, gorgeous..." Greg whispered to himself.
"And hello to you too."
Greg froze at the touch of cold metal to his throat. There was someone standing behind him holding a blade directly under his chin. How the fuck had they crept up on him like that?
Greg swallowed and felt his stubble gently scraping against the razor-sharp edge. He looked up, trying to make out his captor in the mirror above the table. The man behind him was slightly taller and thinner than Greg, wearing a very expensive suit that showed his figure off to perfection; Holmes himself presumably. His stern features and piercing eyes would have made Greg feel like he'd been caught red-handed even if they'd only met in the street. Just the kind of rich, smug, superior bastard Greg loved to steal from - and just the kind he'd have put last on the list of "people to get caught by".
For the icing on the cake, Holmes wasn't threatening him with any old weapon.
"Nice dirk. 18th century naval?" Greg asked - carefully.
"Thank you - and yes. It belonged to an ancestor who served under Nelson. Please do not attempt to move."
"Wouldn't dream of it. I've never been fond of close shaves."
"Close the drawer, please," Holmes ordered.
Greg reached out with both hands until his fingertips found the smooth wood of the drawer front. He gently pushed it forward until it slid into place.
"Thank you."
The blade eased away from Greg's throat but before he could react there was a sharp stinging jab into the back of his neck.
"Fuck! What was that? Did you.. did... you..." Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit! No!
Greg fought hard against the thick blanket that seemed to have suddenly wrapped itself around both his body and his brain but he was already out of it when he slumped over onto the floor a moment later...
Mycroft placed the dirk carefully on the polished surface of the dresser before he transferred the small needle to his other hand and retrieved the plastic cap he'd thumbed off it into his pocket moments earlier. He put the cap on the needle and tossed it into a nearby bin.
He calculated he had at least fifteen minutes based on a very conservative estimate of the intruder's weight and build.
And what of his intruder?
He rolled the man over onto his back.
Apparently a simple thief instead of the assassin he'd expected. Although hardly simple if he'd managed to make it this far and judging by the quality of his equipment and tight-fitting clothes. Very intriguing - and very, very good-looking, which was what had ensured Mycroft had drugged him instead of just killing him outright.
The dagger went back into its sheath. Mycroft placed it on the nearest bedside table. If he still ended up killing the man it certainly wouldn't be in such a messy manner but knives were always entertainingly threatening.
Mycroft smiled as he looked at the large bed.
Well, why not? It had been a long time since he had had anything even remotely resembling fun...
Greg's relief at waking up and being not dead, thank you God lasted for approximately two seconds.
That was how long his brain took to stop doing cartwheels of joy and point out he was spread-eagled on the four-poster bed he'd hidden beside earlier - and he couldn't move. Not because of any leftover effects of the drug but because he was secured there by thick leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles and some very strong looking chains.
His brain then also helpfully pointed out that if Holmes was the kind of man who just happened to have restraints of this quality sitting by his bedside, then he was probably not the kind of man whose bed you wanted to be strapped to.
Greg told his brain to shut the fuck up and start thinking of a way out - which was going to be tricky. His hands were folded over into fists inside thick leather mittens. Even if they had been free he could see the way the locks were positioned on the cuffs would make it nigh impossible for him to get at them.
"Ah, you're awake. Excellent." Holmes was sitting in a high-backed chair against the far wall. He closed the laptop he had been looking at and strolled over to the bottom of the bed.
Greg glared at him between his feet - his bare feet, he now noticed. He was down to just his trousers.
"You're not just a minor civil servant, are you?"
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "And what brings you to that conclusion?"
"The security - far too high level for the stuff in this house, so it's for your work, not your things. Information, papers, that kind of valuable, not money. You do something secret and you bring your work home with you."
"Technically correct. The security is there to protect one of the government's most powerful data repositories."
Greg frowned doubtfully as he glanced past Homes to the small laptop on the distant side-table.
"No, no." Holmes chuckled. "This one." He tapped his forehead.
"You?"
"Me. So, as I said, you are correct - I do bring my work home with me. It's rather unavoidable."
"Shit." Greg closed his eyes. "Thanks for telling me. Now I know I'm dead."
"Let's not jump to conclusions shall we, Lestrade?"
Greg caught himself on the H of How...? but Holmes seemed to have heard it anyway.
"Grégoire Henri Lestrade, place and date of birth unknown - and congratulations on that by the way, not many succeed in concealing such things from me - also known rather fancifully as 'The Silver Fox', wanted in twelve countries--"
"Eleven."
"Twelve - the Belize police issued a warrant this morning."
"Never been there."
Holmes just smiled and continued, "--on charges all relating to crimes of theft, predominantly of very expensive jewelery, though in one case of a..." Holmes paused as if he were turning a page while reading. "Oh yes, a miniature schnauzer."
"That dog was being neglected. Suarez only kept it to spite his ex-wife. I left it with a much better family."
"Your concern for animal welfare is truly admirable."
"But not enough to stop you dropping me into the Thames in lead boots, I bet."
"As I said, let's not be hasty." Holmes walked around the side of the bed and sat down. "After all, I so rarely receive visitors at home."
He reached out and slid his hand across Lestrade's chest.
"Especially not such handsome ones, who are not likely to be misssed..."