Title: The Old Bad Songs
Author: fengirl88
Lestrade/Maurice crossover
Cautiously rated M for sexual content in later chapters
Summary: Lestrade becomes enmeshed in a blackmail case he's working, and has to turn to Sherlock for help.
Disclaimer: I do not own this Lestrade, or this Sherlock, or any other characters from the BBC Sherlock who may turn up in the story. Or this Maurice, who is an older version of Forster's as played by James Wilby in the Merchant Ivory film. Or the song quoted in chapter 2, the first line of which gives that chapter its title.
A/N: This story is for kopoushka, who requested it on livejournal after reading Close Analysis, and who suggested that Lestrade and an older Maurice could meet over a blackmail case. It follows on from the incidents in Close Analysis and Unpredictable. No spoilers for BBC Sherlock as yet.
The title of the story is a translation of a Schumann song title, Die Alten Bösen Lieder, and will make sense eventually. Individual chapter titles are taken from songs this Lestrade knew in his youth.
Chapter 1 Watching The Detectives
He's the first man who's been able to take Lestrade's mind off Sherlock for more than five minutes. That part of Lestrade's mind, at any rate. Which Lestrade knows he probably should be grateful for. God knows he needs something to do that.
Probably shouldn't be this though.
It really shouldn't be this.
If there's one cast-iron rule in the job, even more than not shagging your boss, it's that you don't do it with a civilian who's called the police in to help. Particularly if what he's called you in to help with is a nasty case of blackmail.
Not that Lestrade is doing it with M., of course. But he knows he shouldn't even be thinking about it. And the fact that he's thinking about it at all is a worry.
Hadn't realized how much the Sherlock stuff was affecting him. Clouding his judgement. He's going to have to do something about that, though he's not sure what. Go out and get laid? Chance would be a fine thing. And Lestrade has an uneasy feeling it might not do the job.
Can't exactly go on sick leave because you've been crossed in love, Lestrade thinks, and winces. Crossed in love should have been ironic, an obvious piss-take. Doesn't feel like one though. Feels a bit too close to the truth for comfort.
He's always known Sherlock could mess with his mind and, God help him, his body. Like nobody else. But it always used to seem like a game they were playing. Bit of a weird and twisted game, sure; the sort you mostly don't get into unless you've had one too many - or several. Games he's played before when he was drunk: Truth or Consequences. I've Never. Strip Poker.
Or that one where you end up with your pants round your ankles and having sex in front of the guy's flatmate. Just to pick an example at random.
Yep, being with Sherlock was a bit like being under the influence. Often, exactly like it. But the worst you'd wake up with usually was a hangover and a few embarrassing flashbacks, and that never stopped anyone from getting sloshed the next time.
This feels different. This actually hurts. Which Lestrade really wasn't expecting, and doesn't know what to do with. He'd thought that finally getting his leg over with Sherlock would mean he didn't mind about Sherlock and JW. Just goes to show how wrong you can be.
The sex had been pretty good. Bloody good, actually, in the circumstances. Probably not going to help to get Sherlock out of his system, though, not sure why he'd thought it would. He'd felt cheerful for a couple of days afterwards, had even thought it might happen again, given how much Sherlock had seemed to be enjoying himself – which would be nice.
Then he'd run into Sherlock and John Watson at a crime scene looking annoyingly pleased with themselves and a sight too comfortable with each other for Lestrade's peace of mind. Not clambering all over each other or anything like that. Just – easy, somehow. Like they've been married for years. Something about the way they look at each other, seem to know each other's next move... Enough to turn your stomach.
Enough to turn Lestrade's, anyway. That jealous knotted feeling seems to have taken up permanent residence in his gut. Plus, his chest hurts, which never used to happen.
He doesn't know if they're shagging, though he thinks they probably are. But even if he tells himself they aren't it doesn't seem to make any difference. DI Lestrade: new hobby, pining like a bloody schoolgirl. Great. Just what he needs in his life, a pointless emotional complication with no hope of resolution.
So of course he acquires another one. To take his mind off the first one. Stroke of genius, really.
Which is where M. comes into the picture, even though he absolutely shouldn't. If Lestrade can't sort himself out pretty damn quick he's going to have to ask to be taken off the case, and he's not looking forward to trying to explain that one to the Assistant Commissioner. Sorry, sir, I accidentally shagged the blackmail victim.
Not that it's going to come to that.
He does think M. is ... interested though. Lestrade's judgement may not be working but his instincts still function well enough for that sort of thing.
M. doesn't have to keep coming to the Yard the way he does, for a start. Lestrade's going to have to have a word with him about that, thinking about it. He's not sure about this, but he thought he heard Anderson saying something about the boss's new boyfriend last time M. turned up to ask yet again about developments. Being over-anxious is one thing, but M. almost seems to be making excuses to see Lestrade, claiming he's remembered something else the blackmailer told him, which then turns out to be too vague to be useful.
Lestrade's mobile rings, making him jump. If he's starting to have the jitters this really is getting out of hand.
Unknown caller. Hmm. That shouldn't be happening. He keeps his number a closely guarded secret. Unless it's Sherlock again, but he usually texts rather than calls. Probably just as well, given the effect his voice has on Lestrade. Sherlock could make the Argos catalogue sound like the early stages of phone sex.
"Hallo?" Lestrade says, cautiously.
Silence at the other end.
"Lestrade here. Who is that?"
"You've been a naughty boy, Inspector." Not a voice he recognizes.
Lestrade's stomach churns with apprehension. He tries to sound cool. "Sorry, I don't have time for nuisance callers."
"You really had better make time for me," the voice says.
Man's voice, Lestrade thinks, quite a high one; could just possibly be a deep-voiced woman. Faint trace of an accent he can't quite identify.
"Why would I want to do that?" Lestrade asks, still trying to sound casual and unruffled. Some hopes.
"Oh, you surely don't need me to tell you," the voice sneers.
"Actually, I do," Lestrade says. "If you don't want me to hang up, that is."
There's a laugh. Not a nice one. Lestrade feels he really doesn't want to spend any more time getting to know this person better. Wishes for once he wasn't a poor bloody copper and could just hang up on the tosser, rather than feeling he's got to get to the bottom of this.
"Well," says the voice, "let's just say that you wouldn't want your dear friend to come to any harm. I'm sure we can agree on that."
"If I knew who you were talking about we might," Lestrade says. Wonders if it is a wind-up after all: this is sounding pretty vague.
"Come, come, Inspector," the voice chides him. "It's not like you to be so disingenuous. Your transparency, pathetic as it is, is part of your charm."
"I'm going to hang up now," Lestrade says, knowing he isn't.
"No, you're not," the voice says, accurately.
"Who are you and what do you want?" Lestrade sounds shakier than he could wish, but this bastard is starting to rattle him. Which is really annoying.
"That's for me to know and you to find out," the voice says. "You have five days. After that, everyone is going to know."
"Know what?" Lestrade is flummoxed again. He didn't think he had any guilty secrets left. Apart from his feelings for Sherlock, of course, but he can't see how this person would know about them. Or indeed how revealing that would harm a "dear friend". Sherlock already knows, and the only other person who would care is the blasted Watson. Not a dear friend of Lestrade's.
"About you and your City gent, of course," the voice says impatiently. "The charming Mr Hall. The gutter press will just love it, don't you think?"
Shit. Looks as if Lestrade is too late to warn M. off.
"Are you the one who's been writing to him?" he says, before he can stop himself. Christ, Lestrade, show the nice blackmailer all the cards in your hand, why don't you?
Another laugh. Nastier, if possible. "You'd hardly expect me to say yes to that, now, would you? But let's just say I know about the correspondence. Quite a lot about it. And about how grateful Mr Hall has been for all your help."
Lestrade is sweating now; he doesn't know what to do. "You've made a mistake," he says hoarsely.
"On the contrary," the voice says, "the mistake is yours."
There's a click and then the dial tone. Gone. Should have tried to put a trace on it, do it next time. But how do you explain to your team that some vicious nutjob is trying to make you part of the blackmail case you were called in to investigate?
Lestrade taps in a number. It's slightly worrying that he doesn't have to look it up.
M's voice at the other end, sounding agitated.
"Has he – has the blackmailer tried to make contact with you again?" Lestrade asks.
"Just now," M. says. "Said he – they were fed up with the stalling and that unless I pay them twice what they originally asked they'll go to the tabloids with all of it."
Lestrade nearly asks if the blackmailer mentioned him, but if they didn't then that's not going to help. No point in adding to M's fear.
This isn't how he'd have wanted to bring it up, but he can't see how else to do it right now.
"Best if you don't come to the Yard for a bit," he says carefully. "Don't want to aggravate them."
It's turning out to be a field day for unnerving silences.
Eventually, M. says "I need to see you."
"Look, I'll send Sergeant Donovan round to take down any more details," Lestrade says. Which is what he should have been doing all along.
"It's not that," M says. "Or not exactly."
Oh Christ, not more of this. If M wants to have a mid-life coming-out crisis why can't he have it over someone else, for fuck's sake? Why does it have to be Lestrade?
Always assuming that's what this is, Lestrade rebukes himself. Assume nothing, wasn't that the slogan?
"Look, Maurice," he says, "it's not safe."
Realizes too late that he should have said Mr Hall, or Sir, or nothing at all.
As the mystery voice said, the mistake is his.