Welcome to Baker Street

37. Lie detector

When Sherlock walks out of the interrogation room, he squints his eyes at a familiar silhouette in the middle of Scotland Yard's lobby.

"Look who honours us with his presence," he says in fake surprise and an edge of disdain.

Mycroft Holmes is leaning casually on a black umbrella and rolls his eyes at that remark.

"Hello, brother mine. I've heard you solved the murder, in the end." An undertone of sarcasm veils his voice.

"I did. Why are you here, other than to spoil my fun?"

"Mycroft," Giulia exclaims, walking towards him with a wide smile. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I could say the same about you," he replies, looking around the police station with a disapproving grimace.

She chuckles and stretches her hand out. "Thank you for your invaluable help."

He shakes it firmly. "Anytime."

"Oh wait, it's obvious. You wanted to check on Giulia—the woman who called you from a prison cell," Sherlock says.

"It was merely a holding room," his brother retorts, jumping to her defence.

"Ignore him. He is just jealous because you instantly replied to my distress call but dismissed his request," Giulia addresses the elder, disparaging Sherlock's insinuations.

"Now, I'll leave you to your siblings moment." She winks at them. "Sherlock, I'll wait for you outside. Thanks again, Mycroft, and apologies for all the trouble I may have caused you. Have a good night." She waves at him and steps away.

They watch as she walks through the glass doors of Scotland Yard's lobby, then Sherlock cocks a brow at his brother.

"Should I believe you found your damsel in distress?"

"Is this a childish plea for my attention?"

"No, it's a warning."

Mycroft turns his head to him with an interrogative look. "About?"

Sherlock shoots him an eloquent glance and spells out, "Disadvantage, brother dear."

"Don't be silly. You think you can see through everything, but I must tell you: you are in thick fog, in this case," Mycroft teases him with a smirk. Torturing his little brother by highlighting his obliviousness gives him some subtle contentment.

"What are you implying? What is it about?" Sherlock eagerly questions him.

"You'll find out in due time. After all, I thought you'd like a little puzzle," is his enigmatic response. "Now, if you'll pardon me, I am here on important business. Good night, brother mine."

He walks away, swinging his umbrella and approaching Lestrade, who is just coming out of the interrogation room, a stack of papers tucked under his armpit. He loathes the paperwork.

"Detective Inspector, I trust that you'll deal with this unfortunate hitch in the best possible way," Mycroft states peremptorily, without even bothering to greet him first.

"No need to worry, Mr Holmes. Everything's under control," Greg affirms confidently.

"Everything?" Mycroft frowns, disappointed. "You don't seem to understand: this whole thing never happened. Are we clear?" His burning eyes fulminate the police officer.

Lestrade clears his throat and gulps nervously. "Yes, sir."

"No record of any kind," Mycroft insists.