Chapter Text
21st February 2009
Getting shot wasn’t something Greg had written on his bingo card for this year. In fact, it wasn’t even close to making the list. The bingo card itself had been Sergeant Thomas Wiggins’ ridiculous idea during a quiet New Year’s Eve shift. Everyone on the squad had filled one out to pass the time. "Think big, think crazy" Wiggins had said, his boyish grin as infectious as ever, "Could be your year for some serious surprises, boss!".
"Had enough serious surprises this year mate" Greg sighed, tapping his pen against the paper. Out of habit, his hand drifted to the spot on his ring finger, where his wedding band used to be. He hesitated for a moment, then scribbled down something vague like Catch a career-making case. Something to fill the empty space that had crept into his life over the past year.
Well, this wasn’t exactly the kind of surprise Greg had been hoping for.
It started as a routine raid; the sort of operation Greg could’ve done in his sleep. An informant had tipped them off to a supposedly empty warehouse in the East End, a known hotspot for smuggling operations. It was meant to be a quick in-and-out operation - verify the intel, secure the evidence, and head back in time for tea. But once more routine turned into chaos in a heartbeat.
Greg unlocked his office door with a yawn, the sharp scent of coffee in his travel mug barely cutting through his fatigue. His desk was its usual chaotic mess. Files stacked precariously, Post-it notes with scribbled reminders stuck to every available surface, and an empty mug from the night before still sitting beside his monitor.
He ignored it all and pulled up the case file for the morning’s raid. Their informant, a nervous man named Reed, had been insistent: smuggled weapons, possibly explosives, stored in an unmarked warehouse. Reed claimed the gang running the operation was scattered due to internal squabbles, leaving the warehouse unguarded. Greg wasn’t so sure. The intel was thin, and Reed’s record wasn’t exactly spotless. But his gut told him it was worth investigating.
The precinct was beginning to stir by the time Greg finished reviewing the file. A low murmur of voices filled the air as officers trickled in, some with fresh coffees in hand, others still looking half-asleep. Sergeant Sally Donovan appeared in his doorway, her expression already sharp despite the early hour. "Morning, boss. The team’s ready when you are."
The room buzzed with quiet energy as Greg entered, his team seated around the table. Sergeant Thomas Wiggins, always the joker, was making exaggerated yawning gestures that earned him a few chuckles. Sally stood near the map projected on the wall, her arms crossed and her expression serious.
Greg cleared his throat. "Alright, listen up. We’ve got a lead on a smuggling operation out in the East End. Informant says there’s a stockpile of weapons in an abandoned warehouse. Could be guns, could be worse. Either way, we’re not taking any chances."
He gestured to the map. "Donovan and I will take the first unit inside. Wiggins, you’re handling the perimeter. The rest of you, stay on comms and follow protocol. This is supposed to be low-risk, but we’ve all seen how quickly things can go sideways."
"What are the odds we’re walking into another empty building?" Wiggins asked, grinning.
"If we are, you’re buying the first round tonight," Greg shot back, earning a few laughs. "Now suit up. We move out in thirty."
The warehouse was a hulking relic of London’s industrial past, its rusted metal siding streaked with grime. The surrounding area was desolate, with only the occasional stray cat slinking between piles of discarded rubbish. The air smelled of damp concrete and engine oil.
Reed was waiting near the entrance, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Greg approached him, holding up his badge. "Mr. Reed, DI Greg Lestrade. This is Sergeant Donovan. You’re sure about what you saw?"
Reed nodded jerkily, his eyes darting toward the building. "Yeah, yeah, I saw the crates. Guns, maybe explosives. It’s all in there. But I didn’t stick around to check. Don’t get paid enough for that."
"We appreciate the risk you’ve taken," Greg said, though his tone was all business. "Just stay close to us. My team will handle the rest." Reed swallowed hard and nodded again.
The first thing Greg noticed as they entered the warehouse was the silence. Too silent. No machinery, no voices, not even the faint hum of nearby traffic. Just the occasional creak of the building settling. "This doesn’t feel right," Sally muttered under her breath, her hand inching toward her holster. "Agreed," Greg said, his instincts on high alert. He reached for his radio, ready to give the order to spread out, when the first shot rang out.
The sound cracked through the stillness like a thunderclap, echoing off the metal walls. Greg turned, spotting Reed frozen in place, his face pale as a ghost.
"Get down!" Greg barked, lunging forward. He grabbed Reed by the collar and dragged him behind a stack of crates just as another shot rang out.
And then came the pain.
It hit Greg like a battering ram, a jarring thud against his right leg that sent him reeling. For a moment, he didn’t even register it as pain. Then the fire spread—searing, excruciating, and unrelenting. His knees buckled, and the world tilted sideways as he collapsed to the ground.
"Boss!" Sally’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and panicked. Greg tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. The last thing he saw before everything went black was Sally crouching beside him, her face set in grim determination as she returned fire.
Greg woke to the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor and the sterile scent of antiseptic. His head felt heavy, his mouth dry, and his body like it had been trampled by a herd of elephants. He blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights overhead, trying to orient himself. His hands touched the soft sheets that covered him. This was a bed, not a comfortable one and definitely not his own.
The hospital room was small but private. A window to his left let in the pale February sunlight filtered through gray London clouds. His right leg was immobilized, encased in some sort of brace, and the dull ache in his side suggested he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Luckily the morphine was doing its job because he could barely feel any pain.
But it wasn’t the medical equipment or the unfamiliar room that actually caught his attention. It was the tall figure seated by the window.
"Mr. Holmes?" Greg rasped confused, his voice hoarse from disuse.
Sure enough, Mycroft Holmes sat primly in an armchair, his immaculate suit and polished shoes completely out of place in the drab hospital surroundings. He was scrolling through his phone with one hand, the other resting lightly on the handle of his ever-present umbrella.
This was definitely not on his bingo card either.
"Ah, you’re awake," came a smooth, familiar voice.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here? Sent to gloat?" Greg grumbled, his voice gaining a fraction more strength as his irritation grew. He tried to sit up but immediately regretted it, pain shooting through his body and forcing him back onto the pillows.
Mycroft didn’t even glance up. "Gloating is my brother’s area of expertise, not mine," he replied smoothly. "Ensuring you don’t expire prematurely." He put his phone into the pocket of his well-tailored coat.
"Charming, you’re wasting your time," Greg shot back, grimacing. "I’ll be back on the job as soon as I can walk."
"Inspector, you’ve been shot. Do try not to exacerbate the injury with your usual stubbornness" Mycroft sighed, finally deigning to look at him. His gaze was as piercing as ever, like he could see right through Greg with those dark blue eyes. "You’ll rest, Inspector, or I’ll make arrangements to ensure you’re… unavailable."
Greg’s scowl deepened. "Unavailable? Is that a bloody threat?" he sat up, ignoring the agonising pain. He wouldn't let himself be intimated by Mycroft bloody Holmes. One Holmes' brother, prancing around his crime scenes and making him look like a fool was enough. He didn't need the older one to dictate his life as well.
"A precaution," Mycroft said, rising to his feet with unhurried grace. He adjusted his jacket and looped his umbrella over his arm, his movements as precise as clockwork. He walked to the bedside table, rang the call button for the medical staff, and turned back to Greg.
"If your recovery is delayed by your own stubbornness, I assure you, I’ll intervene." He paused, his gaze narrowing. "And rest assured, Inspector, my interventions are not usually pleasant." Greg scowled. "And what’s it to you? Shouldn’t you be off running the country or whatever it is you do?"
Mycroft’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "Your survival is... inconveniently critical to certain operations. Consider this a professional courtesy."
Greg clenched his jaw, glaring at the man who always seemed to exude control over everything and everyone around him. "Your brother better not stir up trouble at the Yard while I’m gone. I’m warning you now, if he does, I can’t guarantee he won’t be arrested."
Mycroft’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through his stoic facade. "Sherlock is currently occupied with one of his… experiments," he said dryly. "I doubt the Yard will see much of him before your return. In the meantime, Inspector, do try to recover. Good day."
With that, Mycroft strode to the door and slipped out, closing it with a quiet click.
Greg let out a frustrated sigh and sank back into the pillows. His head swam with questions he couldn’t answer. Why the hell had Mycroft Holmes been sitting by his hospital bed? He was used to Mycroft appearing in his office out of thin air to yank cases out from under his jurisdiction, but hospital visits? That wasn’t part of the script. And what was with the veiled threats? Since when did Mycroft Holmes care enough to ensure he’d recover properly?
The answers eluded him, and the effort of trying to figure it out left him more exhausted than he cared to admit. As the beeping of the heart monitor lulled him back toward sleep, one thought lingered in his mind.
Whatever Mycroft Holmes was up to, Greg had the sinking feeling this was only the beginning.
24th February 2009
By the time Greg was discharged, he was more than ready to leave. The hospital stay had been a blur of pain, boredom, and the occasional unwanted visitor, though none as puzzling as Mycroft Holmes.
Greg winced as the nurse adjusted his crutches. His release papers were signed, and they’d loaded him up with enough painkillers to make walking tolerable, though it still hurt like hell. The bullet had been merciful - if such a thing could be said - missing bone, tearing through muscle, and leaving him with months of physical therapy to look forward to. Greg hated the idea of being sidelined. Paperwork he could deal with, but being stuck at home, unable to move freely, was a whole other level of torture.
"Inspector Lestrade, take care not to overdo it," the nurse said as she handed him a bag of medication. "No running marathons, no chasing suspects." She gave him a pointed look, clearly anticipating pushback.
Greg smiled wryly. "I’ll save the 10K for next week then, eh?"
She rolled her eyes. "Charming. Just don’t skip your physical therapy appointments. They’ll call me if you do." Greg chuckled lightly, though the effort made his side ache, "Wouldn’t dream of it, love."
As he hobbled toward the hospital exit, leaning heavily on his crutches, a familiar face appeared. Sally Donovan stood at the curb, her arms crossed and her expression hovering between relief and amusement.
"Morning, boss," she said, opening the passenger door of her car. "Need a hand?"
"Morning, Sal," Greg muttered, already feeling the indignity of being this helpless in front of his team. He made his way to the car, each step a painful reminder of how far he had to go. "Cheers for picking me up. Didn’t fancy waiting for a cab. Or worse take the tube."
"No worries," she said, stepping in to steady him as he attempted to lower himself into the seat. "We were all bloody scared when you’d been shot. Thought we were going to lose you for a second there."
Greg managed a lopsided grin. "Takes more than a bullet to kill my stubborn arse," he said through clenched teeth as he finally eased himself into the seat. His hand gripped the doorframe tightly until the pain subsided. "Although I suppose this delays your promotion, eh?" he joked.
Sally smirked, shutting the door behind him. "Shut up and put your seatbelt on, old man." She moved around to the driver’s side and climbed in, glancing at him as he adjusted himself gingerly in the seat. "Oi, not 40 yet. Give it a couple more years. Still feel as young as when I started police training."
"Sure thing boss" Sally smiled and started the car.
As they pulled out into the light morning traffic, Sally broke the silence. "You’re lucky, you know. Another inch to the left, and we’d be planning your retirement party instead of carting you home."
"Comforting," Greg muttered, rubbing his temple. "Any word on the case? What’s happened since I’ve been out?"
Sally hesitated for a moment before responding. "The warehouse was a bust. At least in terms of what we were looking for. No smuggled goods, but there were plenty of weapons, so it’s not a total loss. The shooter escaped, though. No ID yet I'm afraid."
Greg let out a frustrated sigh. "Great. So we’ve got nothing to show for nearly getting ourselves killed. Typical."
"Not nothing," Sally corrected. "Ballistics is working on the bullet they pulled out of you. We’re running down leads from the informant, too, though the poor bloke’s still shaken up. We’ll get there."
Greg nodded, staring out the window as the city passed by in a blur. The painkillers were beginning to take the edge off, but they left him feeling groggy and disconnected. He hated this, being out of the loop, unable to dive into the thick of things and solve the problem himself.
As they pulled up to his flat in Greenwich, Sally parked and quickly retrieved his crutches from the boot. "You good to make it upstairs on your own, or should I carry you?"
"Ha bloody ha," Greg muttered, gripping the crutches tightly as he maneuvered himself out of the car. "I’ll manage. Somehow."
Sally helped him to the door and waited as he fished the spare key out from under the mat. "You know," she said as he unlocked the door, "you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here for you, boss."
Greg paused, glancing back at her with a faint smile. "I know. Thanks, Sal."
She smiled. "Take care of yourself, yeah? And give me or Thomas a call if you need anything."
With that, she was gone, leaving Greg to navigate his empty flat. He looked around, taking in the familiar chaos of his living room. He leaned on his crutches, surveying the familiar chaos of his living room. The cluttered coffee table scattered with unopened post and a few empty mugs, the half-finished book abandoned on the armchair, the stack of case files he’d meant to tackle but had left untouched.
It had been almost a year since he moved here after the split with his wife. The flat had been meant to be a fresh start. But it had never felt like home. Half the boxes he’d brought with him were still stacked in the corner of the bedroom, gathering dust. Work always got in the way, demanding his attention, filling his days and often his nights.
He told himself he didn’t mind. The clutter and the unfinished business weren’t a reflection of neglect, they were just how things were now, how they’d probably always be. Alone, with nothing but his work. And that was fine. Really.
He eased himself onto the couch with a groan, propping his injured leg on the ottoman. The ache in his body felt like an extension of the ache in his soul. A dull, persistent reminder of all the things that had gone wrong, all the ways he’d fallen short.
The rain began to patter softly against the window, a rhythmic backdrop to the stillness inside. Greg reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, pouring a finger into a glass and letting the burn of it settle in his chest.
"Just how it is," he muttered to himself, the words hollow in the empty room. Greg leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion wash over him. He knew he needed rest, but his mind wouldn’t stop racing. Replaying the raid, the gunshot, and the image of Mycroft Holmes sitting by his hospital bed like some sort of guardian angel.
What the hell was that about?
As the day wore on, Greg’s phone buzzed with messages from his team, updates on the case, and the occasional bad joke meant to cheer him up. He responded to most of them with a short "Thanks" or "Will do", but when the evening rolled around, he found himself staring at his phone, debating whether to send a message to Mycroft. What would he even say? "Thanks for stopping by and threatening me in the hospital?" It sounded ridiculous.
Thomas gave him a short call around 8 pm after his shift ended. "The shooter’s still out there," he said. "But we’re closing in. Ballistics gave us a lead on the weapon, and Reed’s starting to remember more details."
"Good," Greg said, though the news didn’t do much to lift his spirits. "If you need anything, I can swing by tomorrow after work" Thomas said.
"Don't worry about me kid. I'll manage. But thanks" Greg replied.
For the rest of the night Greg found himself thinking about the raid. The silence of the warehouse. The shooter’s aim - deliberate, precise. Something about it didn’t sit right. It all felt like part of a larger puzzle. And he had a sinking feeling that whatever was coming next, he wasn’t prepared for it.