A/N: Just a quick bonus chapter, because it hardly seemed worth posting on its own.


Just across the road on the other side of the yellow and black tape a large black car pulled up.

Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh.
Greg followed suit in quick succession

Did the man really have nothing better to be doing with his time?

No-one stepped out however; not the usual red-headed driver, the beautiful assistant or 'The Suit' himself.

The detective inspector couldn't say he wasn't relieved.

Sherlock, however, still seemed a little scatty as if he expected his brother to pop out from behind a bin, spinning that bloody umbrella and wearing that smug expression that made Lestrade ache…to punch him that was.

Taking hold of the younger man's elbow Greg steered him to the left, extolling the virtues of a small coffee shop round the corner. For once Sherlock seemed to appreciate-or at least be politely ignoring- his mindless babbling, his eyes fixated on the sleek shape of the sedan.

"You still haven't asked me what he does Lestrade."

The detective started, he glanced to his left and found himself staring directly into Sherlock's thin face. The guy really had no concept of personal space, did he?

"With most people it's the first thing they ask….and you've met him...three times now."

Greg recognised that look as the same one Sherlock wore when examining corpses.

He shuddered.

"Twice," he corrected, "The last time I just got the femme-fatale who follows him around...To be honest Sherlock, I'm too scared to ask."

He shrugged off the disappointed look he received.

"Oh I don't know…inventor of the internet?" he guessed, next to him Sherlock made a horrified noise in the back of his throat, "Head-honcho of some crime syndicate?"

"Well I suppose you could call it that if you wanted; the most powerful crime syndicate in the country...or at least they like to think so."

Goosebumps prickled on the back of Lestrade's neck, he probably shouldn't be listening to this, duty to report and all that.
Not that he could just walk over and cuff the bastard; he probably had half of the superior officers on his payroll and….

Wait.

Sherlock was laughing.

"Before you arrest him let me clarify that," there was a dramatic pause and Greg nearly stamped on his foot to speed him up, "Mycroft's in the government Lestrade."

It made perfect sense of course.
The haughtiness, the power behind every polished syllable he uttered, the posh car, the equally posh assistant. He wondered how he hadn't thought of it before.
The fact that Greg had never seen him on tele or read the names Holmes in the press of course meant he was low-level; nothing particularly important, certainly not a frontline politician, probably not even a backbencher.
A bureaucrat most likely; the impeccable suit seemed to suggest a nit-picky-ness that Greg could only associate with a Whitehall pen-pusher.

"Ministry of transport or something?" he suggested casually.

Sherlock stopped and gave him a long hard stare before his face cracked into a smile.

"Sorry did I say in?" his words were hard to comprehend, obscured by heavy peals of laughter, "I mean is….Mycroft is the government."

Lestrade opened his mouth to talk but when he did so nothing would come out. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it was good-natured and his laughing only got harder.

"I don't understand."

"You will soon enough."

With a final glance back to the car, which was gently easing away from the curb, and a flippant two finger salute as it disappeared up the road Sherlock started to move again.

"Hurry up Lestrade," he called, his expression back to the petulant one he usually wore, "You're paying."