"It could be a better day. When the lift breaks somewhere between the third and fourth floors of New Scotland Yard, it gets worse than Hleb missing by a fucking mile."

Lestrade thinks Mycroft is only occupying a minor position in the british goverment.

He knows him only as a kind, well-mannered, understanding man as opposite to his younger brothrer.
Mycroft tries his best to hide the fact that he's the british goverment.

Embarrassing as it is -- considering Lestrade actually is a decently intelligent and aware person despite what Sherlock insinuates at least twice a week -- he very simply does not notice someone standing in his doorway until the man clears his throat. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?" the man asks as though he already knows the answer.

"It's the name on the desk."

The man's mouth settles with a hint of a smile. It's a bit obnoxious really, the unconscious condescension he exudes; like he knows all the answers to questions Lestrade can't even begin to think of asking. "I'm here about Sherlock Holmes."