DISCLAIMER: I don't own BBC Sherlock. Don't sue my ass, or let Moriarty anywhere near it.
It had been a long night, and Lestrade could barely stand from the exhaustion. As he walked to the nightclub where he knew the man who called himself Brook was probably waiting, he replayed the events of that evening in his head.
They had made him turn on Sherlock. That was bad enough. But seeing the desperation in his eyes as he had dragged John Watson away at gunpoint. . . Lestrade knew Sherlock wasn't a fraud. He had always known. But the thought that he had betrayed him, that he'd played a part in his downfall, it tortured him.
"So you've come back," crooned the Irishman, sipping on a sickeningly blue drink as he spun on his barstool.
Lestrade caught him by the arm, stopping his rotation.
"You promised. You promised if I did what you wanted that you'd leave Sherlock alone."
The man grinned wickedly, leaning up close so their noses nearly touched.
"I lied," he replied in a singsongy voice.
"You bastard," hissed Lestrade, gripping his shoulders tightly.
"Ooh, yes, I thought you liked it rough. Bravo."
Lestrade turned and walked away. But he only made it a few steps before the criminal mastermind's words made him stop.
"I have pictures."
He spun back to meet the shorter man, his face rigid. "What."
"You know. Pictures. You didn't think I'd trick you without gathering evidence, dear little detective inspector, did you?"
Lestrade frowned. "I suppose not. What do you want?"
He shook his head. "What, so you can take more pictures? Why would I?"
"Because I own you. As long as I've got my claws in Sherlock, I own you."
Lestrade whimpered softly as the man dug his fingernails into his wrist, nearly drawing blood. He knew that he would bleed plenty before the night was over.
"Just please, leave him out of this."
"I can't promise anything," whispered the man, "That wouldn't be as interesting."